“No, it seems I have another breath.” She drew in a slow breath and then added, “There, now this one is probably my last.”
Mr. Willimaker leaned forward. “If you could please use that breath, then, to tell me the name of the next ruler…”
“The Brownies will have a king this time.”
“A king—yes, that’s fine. What’s his name?”
“There’s only one person—” She paused as she sucked in some air. “You must give him everything necessary to succeed. His name is—”
Then Queen Bipsy’s head fell forward onto her chest. Mr. Willimaker sadly bowed his head. She had been a good queen, noble and kind. Her death had come too soon for the Brownies who loved her.
“His name is the following,” Queen Bipsy said, tapping him on the shoulder and nearly causing him to jump out of his skin. (You, the reader, may also have nearly jumped out of your skin when you realized the queen was not as dead as Mr. Willimaker had suspected. Studies have shown this very thing happened to twenty-three other readers who failed to fit back into their skin after this point and have had to go skinless since.)
Mr. Willimaker put his pen to his palm. “Yes?”
“No time left to say the name,” she whispered. “You must choose him.”
Mr. Willimaker tried to point out that it would have been faster to say the name than to have ordered him to choose someone, but it was too late. For when she closed her eyes this time, it was certain she had died, because she didn’t spit.
Mr. Willimaker stared at his hand, as if the name should magically appear there. How was he to choose the next king? For a brief moment he considered writing in his own name, but then he remembered that most Brownies would rather be ruled by a patch of mold than by him. He thought about writing in the name of Fudd Fartwick, the queen’s closest advisor, but remembered that Fartwick was cruel and evil, and also a known cheater in the delightful game of buzzball.
If he chose badly, think of how the Brownies would laugh at him then. They’d ask, “How many Brownies does it take to destroy the kingdom? Only one, if it’s Mr. Willimaker.” Not a funny joke, but the Brownies would laugh about it anyway. No, there had to be a way for him to obey Queen Bipsy’s command but still get the Brownies to choose the next king.
He forced his eyebrows together. Think, Willimaker, think. His nervous brain simply answered, no, and quite rudely too. Fine, Willimaker told his brain, then I’ll make this decision without you.
Dear Reader, even a rude brain is better than no brain at all. If your brain has been rude to you, then you may punish it by watching an entire day of cartoons. But when it has apologized, you must turn off the television and start using it again.
As often happens when one is not using his or her brain to think, Mr. Willimaker came up with an idea certain to end in disaster. The queen had ordered him to choose a name, and he had to obey her command, no matter how strange it was. But if he chose someone who was also strange, it would be impossible for the Brownies to accept him. They’d ignore her wish and choose their own king.
So he chose a king none of the Brownies had ever heard of. In fact, the king wasn’t a Brownie at all.
It was a human. A human whose name he knew only because his daughter, Patches, never stopped talking about him. An eleven-year-old boy named Elliot Penster.
Obviously, the Brownies would never allow a human to become their king. They’d ignore Queen Bipsy’s will and call for a general election to choose their next ruler.
The plan was clever, foolproof, and perfect in every way but one: the Brownies never ignored Queen Bipsy’s will.
At the news of Queen Bipsy’s death, an immediate assembly of all Brownies was called. It was held in Burrow Cave, the only place large enough for all Brownies to meet together. Despite the hundreds of fireflies that flew above them, it was always a little dark in there. That was fine by most Brownies, since it meant they didn’t have to look too closely at the Brownie in charge of the meeting, Fudd Fartwick.
Fudd had been Queen Bipsy’s advisor for the past four hundred years. At twenty-eight inches, he was taller than most Brownies. His nose was longer than most Brownies’ noses and slightly crooked, too, which was okay since it kept most people from noticing his eyes. Fudd had mean eyes. He didn’t look at others; he glared at them. If he smiled, it was probably because one of his evil plans had worked. In those happy moments, his eyes s
hrunk to tiny slits on his stout face. He was the kind of creature whom you wouldn’t want to look at very long for fear your eyeballs would burn.
Don’t laugh. It’s happened before and it’s not pretty.
Fudd had one simple, humble wish for his life, which was to become the most powerful creature in the universe. There was only one position for him of greater power with the Brownies, and that was as king. Now that Queen Bipsy had died, he was ready to take the crown for himself.
Fudd had big plans for the Brownies. No more homes in underground tunnels and caverns. No more life as second-rate creatures behind the Elves and Fairies. No more making their living by doing secret chores for the humans. No, it was time for the humans to begin serving them.
It would take the help of the Goblins, though he’d have to keep that a secret. Brownies and Goblins weren’t the best of friends, mostly because Goblins had spent the past three years trying to kill the Brownies. But Fudd planned to trick the Goblins. As soon as he convinced the Goblins to join him, he could end the war and become the hero of the Brownies—but even more, he’d become the Goblins’ king as well.
Fudd smiled. His pointy teeth peeked through his gray lips. Careful now, he thought. Accept the crown first, and then you can make your plans.
Mr. Willimaker stood to speak to the group. He coughed several times, because whenever he was nervous, it felt like something was stuck in his throat, like a pumpkin. He hadn’t washed his hand with the name of the king on it, although it had become so sweaty that all of the letters had washed together and now said the new king’s name was something like “Lnit Prmsln.” He didn’t know anyone named Lnit Prmsln, so he’d have to go with his first choice.
Dear Reader, if your name happens to be Lnit Prmsln, then in the first place I’m very sorry for you. In the second place, you are not the human Mr. Willimaker intended to become king, so please do not dig a hole hundreds of feet into the earth trying to correct this problem. You’ll get very dirty and still won’t reach the Underworld. Besides, as you continue reading this story, you’ll probably decide that you really don’t want to be the king anyway.
Mr. Willimaker cleared his throat again and began to speak, but one of the Brownies yelled out, “Is the scary little mouse coming again, Willimaker? Will the mouse destroy us all this time?”