Comics to the Death?
Early one morning, eleven-year-old Prince William of Marigold was chopping onions for the royal family’s restaurant. The patio next to the kitchen building was the best place for so many onions, and today he had company.
Mr. G, technically Mr. Giant, always introduced himself as, “the biggest parsnip farmer in the Seven Kingdoms,” followed by a laugh like a summer thunderstorm rolling in.
While William chopped, Mr. G heaved tree trunks into place for a new pergola over the patio, to make shade for the outdoor diners. The queen was going to plant tropical vines and hang kerosene lamps on the new pavilion.
“I want it to be exotic,” she’d said. For her, sticking out was fun. She’d been born in the Seven Kingdoms. “Like a trip to India . . .”
William didn’t want to be exotic. Normally, Mr. G worked at his big farm in Cochem Kingdom, where he produced vegetables for most of the Seven Kingdoms. He usually came by once a week to deliver vegetables for the Royal Marigold Restaurant. The building project was a favor.
The onions were fresh from Mr. G’s vegetable farm.
Cooked, they were tasty, but raw?
“These could make an army weep.” William wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
“The stronger they are, the sweeter they are,” Mr. G said, slamming another post neatly into the ground. “Just like me.” He chuckled again.
Mr. G grunted and heaved a huge tree trunk into a deep hole. The giant’s shovelful of dirt flew over his shoulder and landed on the other side of the Elf Brook.
How did it feel to be that strong?
William didn’t ask. It was too much like how-does-it-feel-to-be-a-giant. Too much like how-does-it-feel-to-be-from-India.
Instead, William asked, “You know something? I wish we had ‘Speech or Die’ here.”
“Why the death wish?” Mr. G heaved another post into the new hole. “Onions getting to you?”
“Speech or Die” was Cochem Kingdom’s secret weapon for winning the InterKingdom Speech Tournament. Mr. G had told William about the funny speeches people gave. The Marigold Kingdom didn’t have anything like it.
William spoke his thought aloud, “What if we did ‘Speech or Die’ with comics?”
“Comics to the Death!” Mr. G said, in his deepest, mountain-shaking voice, then ruined it with a belly-shaking chuckle. Swinging a massive mallet, he pounded the tree trunk into the ground. In a high, squeaky voice, he said, “I’m dying for a new comic.” His deep chuckle rumbled again.
“You’re the only one who thinks they’re worth dying for,” William blinked his watery eyes. The breeze on the patio was no match for this pile of stinky onions. “But seriously, my family’s not from here. Nobody here gets my jokes. Look at this—” William wiped his hands, dug a carrier pigeon message from the Seven Kingdoms Proclamation out of his pocket, and handed it to the giant.
Mr. G squinted at the message. “How’s a giant supposed to read such tiny print? A pelican would be much better than a shrimpy carrier pigeon. Now there’s a roomy beak.”
William snorted and made a mental note to add a pelican delivery bird to a comic strip. He wiped his hands on his clean apron, took the message from Mr. G, and read aloud:
“First of all, I like your comic strips. Second of all, I’m a Proclamation reader. And third of all, that’s just plain nasty,” Mr. G said. “Is that why you didn’t give them your real name?”
William shrugged. “I didn’t want them to take the comic strips because I’m a Crown Prince.”
“Oh.” Mr. G nodded. “You want to do it the hard way.”
William frowned. He was thinking about how to get some carrier pigeons from another dovecote.
“What did you send them?” Mr. G asked.
“How to Make Friends With Chapati.”
“But I like that one!” Mr. G was indignant.
Actually, William had sent two, but Mr. G didn’t need to see the other one.
“What’s wrong with the Proclamation?” Mr. G pounded a tree trunk into the ground. “Haven’t they ever had chapati?”
“Nope.” Because chapati aren’t from here. That was why William’s comics were never going to catch on in the Seven Kingdoms. Mr. G got them, but he wasn’t from here either.
“I have to see that one again.” Mr. G picked up William’s sketchbook. “Do you mind?”
“One sec—” William did mind, but his hands were full of onions.
“Got some secrets in here, William?” Mr. G chuckled. “I won’t tell anybody.”
By the time William had wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel, Mr. G had found the page with the chapati comic. “Every time I look at this, I get hungry.”
Then, before William could stop him, he flipped the page and gave a shout of laughter. “Did you send this one too?”
“I was kinda mad.” William’s face flamed. That was the comic Mr. G wasn’t supposed to see.
“I guess.” Mr. G’s big nose quivered, and he tip-toed to William’s other side, ridiculous in his giant boots. “I’ll try to stay on the cook’s good side.”
William’s mouth twisted. “Not funny.” The Royal Marigold Restaurant didn’t joke about food poisoning.
Mr. G snorted. “You’re the one who put my funeral in a comic strip.” He dug another hole for the pavilion, then put down his shovel. “They rejected that one too?”
William shrugged. “No answer means no.”
“What more do they want? I mean, I died in that one.” Mr. G dropped a tree trunk into the new hole. “When did you send it?”
“A couple months ago,” William said.
“Been wanting to bump me off for so long,” Mr. G mused, shaking his head in mock sadness. The shaking spread to his huge torso, then his low chuckles built up to a bright crack of laughter.
That was the laugh that kept William drawing comic strips, even on the darkest three-rejections-from-the-Proclamation days.
Pumping one huge fist in the air, Mr. G shouted, “Comic or die!”
William was never going to hear the end of this.
A few moments later, when Mr. G had finally recovered from his laugh attack, he leaned on his shovel. “Maybe Bridget knows what’s going on with your Proclamation problem.”
“Ace Reporter Bridget?” William asked. He’d seen her around Cochem Castle. She was about his age, but she didn’t go to school with the royal family. “You know her?”
“Of course,” Mr. G said. “She’s in the Vintner’s Ventriloquism League with me. I’ll tell her to bring all those Proclamation people over to ‘Speech or Die’. That’ll straighten them out.” His deep rumble rattled the restaurant windows.
“Speech or Die” seemed like a bloodthirsty place to learn manners, but William let it go. Good thing Mr. G had a different sense of humor. Not everyone could laugh about their own funeral. William let out a breath he’d forgotten about.
Then he had another depressing thought. If Bridget was the one telling the Proclamation to turn down his comic strips, he was sunk. Bridget knew what people liked here. A few years ago, she’d given the winning speech at the InterKingdom Speech Tournament.
Her speech was awesome.
The crowd had thrown flowers and stomped their feet until the ground shook.
If Bridget thought people wouldn’t like William’s comics, they wouldn’t. He groaned.
After a moment, Mr. G gestured at the onions with his elbow. “Why so many?”
“Dry eye therapy,” William quipped.
“You can stop with the crying now.” Mr. G heaved a tree trunk into a vertical position. “I’m not dead.”
“Glad to hear it.” William blinked his watery eyes against the overpowering scent and scraped the onions off the chopping board into a huge bowl. “I’m covering the restaurant today.”
Mr. G dropped the post in the hole, dusted his hands, and gave William a mock salute. “The Marigold Kingdom needs their Crown Prince to do his duty.”
William returned a half-hearted salute and went on chopping vegetables for the soup. His family had other ideas about his duty. The truth was he needed more time to work on his comics without a lot of people around. His friends and family knew he drew comics, but—until a moment ago—his “Jack” comics had been a secret. They were going to be big: epic adventures with oversized heroes. Everywhere William went, he’d see strangers reading them.
“Where are the king and queen today?” Mr. G asked.
William was glad to switch to a safer subject. “They went over to the Welcome Café. Again.”
“Didn’t feel like welcoming anyone today?” Mr. G said, too lightly.
“Welcome to the Royal Marigold,” William said, in his best head-waiter manner. “Where would you like to sit?”
“Thanks very much,” Mr. G said with a dainty head bow, falling into the game right away. “I’d like to try your best table by the window for once.”
For once?
William’s head snapped back. The restaurant’s dining room hadn’t ever felt like a touchy subject before.
Still in waiter mode, William tried to pass it off. “So sorry, sir, that table isn’t available.”
With an airy wave of his huge hand, Mr. G said, “I’ll stay out here then.” He turned his back and dug a hole for the next post. It was silly, but William felt like he’d shut the giant out of the restaurant.
Mr. G didn’t need to be welcomed. He’d lived in the Seven Kingdoms forever, much longer than William’s family, and everybody loved the giant.
Unlike William, he hadn’t had to bribe kids with fresh chapati to be his friends. Mr. G sold people vegetables. Vegetables were definitely not a bribe.
Here, cry over these onions and be my friend. Burn your eyes with these hot peppers and we’ll be blood brothers.
Right.
“You know,” Mr. G said, “I’ll take you to ‘Speech or Die’ any time you want. Just say the word.”
Touched, William said, “When they start doing comics, I’ll be right over.”
“Draw a comic in six minutes or die?” Mr. G said. “That sounds terrifying. If that ever happens, you’re on my team. Don’t forget.” He jabbed a finger at William and stomped around the post, leaving deep boot prints in the mud.
A perfect comic strip frame popped into William’s head. Whenever Mr. G was around, William got new ideas. Probably because the giant’s actions were superhero-sized. Today was no different. William suddenly saw the pavilion as it would be when it was finished, but his mind kept on drawing.
A woman in a silk sari carries a tray of fresh chapati out into the jungle. Up above, a jaguar lies in wait . . . Can the giant save her? Or the chapati?
The jungle vivid in his mind, William wiped his eyes on his sleeve, pivoted the chopping board, and let his knife fly through the chopped onions again. Rat-a-tat-a-rat-a-tat-a-tat. Done.
As soon as William figured out how, he would set up a table for Mr. G next to the biggest restaurant window.
William laid down his knife and picked up the board full of onions. “Got to get the soup started. Want anything else? Chapati?”
Mr. G said, “Only if there’s an extra. I don’t really need one.”
William grinned. No one could resist the restaurant’s chapati. The round flatbreads puffed up like a balloon on the griddle when they were almost ready, and the warm, slightly smoky scent was irresistible—the ultimate friendship-making food. How could the Proclamation resist his comic strips about them?
After his family had moved to the Seven Kingdoms, William hadn’t known anyone in his new school. The other kingdoms had their own schools, but King Monsoon had sent William to school in Cochem Kingdom. “I don’t want you to be outsiders.”
William hadn’t seen the point, but his father was the king, and William was a Crown Prince. End of story.
The huge Cochem royal family was overwhelming. All fifteen of the royal Cochem children stared at his lunch and his bright orange clothes and said nothing.
After weeks of awkwardness, William had offered a fresh chapati to the youngest princess, the one they used to call “Fifteenth”. She’d shared it with one of her fifteen siblings and suddenly William had friends.
Chapati magic.
These days, he had friends all around the Seven Kingdoms. But remembering those first days still made the hair on his arms stand up.