and ‘By my troth’? If everything gets translated, shouldn’t ‘Ods bodkins’ be translated too, into something like …oh, I don’t know … ‘Gosh!’ or maybe ‘Dang!’?”
“You—” said Merlin, poking Roy in the chest with a large toad that had hopped up to peer into the bowl of blue flames, “are smarter than you look.”
Roy didn’t know how to respond to the toad or the compliment, but it didn’t matter because Merlin kept on talking. “Downright clever boy. I never even thought about that, but yes, yes, that’s so. It
is
silly to have a Frenchman and a Spaniard understanding each other fluently, except when the Frenchman means to say ‘Mon Dieu’ or the Spaniard cries ‘Caramba!’ I suppose we should remember that books are often written in the spirit of truth but without proper research, and maybe some books get written by people who never actually stumbled upon magic themselves and so had to imagine it.” Merlin began to cough again. “Hargh!”
“That’s a nasty cough,” said Susan. “Do you have cough syrup in Camelot?”
“Ah, there’s no syrup that can help this cough. Comes of gazing into bowls of burning weeds all day,” sighed Merlin. “It’s an occupational hazard. I should really install better ventilation in this place, but I’m a lazy man, and nobody would understand it anyway. I
do
live in the fifth century.”
Henry lifted his eyes from his weed-water dish,which he had been poking around in. “Is that where we are, the fifth century?”
“No, that’s
when
you are, my boy. If I were you, I’d be more precise with my language.
Where
you are is Camelot.”
That reminded Henry of something. “But if this really is Camelot, where are King Arthur and all the knights? Asleep?”
Just as Emma had envisioned stained-glass windows and jesters, Henry had imagined swords clashing and jousting tournaments. He wondered if Camelot would be worth a return trip by daylight.
Merlin sighed and ran a hand through his snarled hair. “No, Arthur’s off fighting the Saxons, as usual.”
“Saxons? What are Saxons?” asked Henry.
“Greedy fellows who like to play with knives and spears, Saxons are. Thieving sorts and mean, drunken louts. Arthur spends all his time battling them. Always with the Saxons. I tell him there’s not much point in it, but nobody listens to old Merlin.”
“Not much point?”
“No. The Saxons will win in the end, Arthur knows that. And someone else will kill off the Saxons, eventually. It’s just the way things are, but you can’t tell Arthur anything. It’s in his nature to play with hissword, and honestly, he doesn’t listen very well.”
Henry, who more than once had the words “poor listening skills” written on his report card, thought for a minute and decided that he would probably rather go off to a glorious battle than sit in a muddy courtyard with a bunch of pigs and burning weeds.
“So, what else is going on, if Arthur’s not here?” Henry asked.
“Not much,” admitted Merlin. “The pigs root. The chickens lay eggs and peck at each other. The queen wanders around looking stately.”
“A queen?” Emma’s eyes got big.
“Yes,” said Merlin, “and if you want to, you can run along and meet her. Guinevere’s generally up about this time of night, rehearsing her despair in the moonlight.”
“I want to,” said Emma. “I want to see the queen, and this was my wish.”
“Fair enough,” said the wizard, nodding. “But before you go, a gift!” Merlin motioned to the dishes of weed water, cool in their hands. All this time, Henry, Emma, Susan, and Roy had been holding their dishes carefully. Now they peered into them.
“Just say one word,” said Merlin. “One word only. Whisper it into the dish, and the potion will give you a glimpse.”
“Just one word?” said Emma. “We shouldn’t ask it a question?”
“Heavens, no,” said Merlin. “Then you’d only get the future of the first word you asked,
“You—” said Merlin, poking Roy in the chest with a large toad that had hopped up to peer into the bowl of blue flames, “are smarter than you look.”
Roy didn’t know how to respond to the toad or the compliment, but it didn’t matter because Merlin kept on talking. “Downright clever boy. I never even thought about that, but yes, yes, that’s so. It
is
silly to have a Frenchman and a Spaniard understanding each other fluently, except when the Frenchman means to say ‘Mon Dieu’ or the Spaniard cries ‘Caramba!’ I suppose we should remember that books are often written in the spirit of truth but without proper research, and maybe some books get written by people who never actually stumbled upon magic themselves and so had to imagine it.” Merlin began to cough again. “Hargh!”
“That’s a nasty cough,” said Susan. “Do you have cough syrup in Camelot?”
“Ah, there’s no syrup that can help this cough. Comes of gazing into bowls of burning weeds all day,” sighed Merlin. “It’s an occupational hazard. I should really install better ventilation in this place, but I’m a lazy man, and nobody would understand it anyway. I
do
live in the fifth century.”
Henry lifted his eyes from his weed-water dish,which he had been poking around in. “Is that where we are, the fifth century?”
“No, that’s
when
you are, my boy. If I were you, I’d be more precise with my language.
Where
you are is Camelot.”
That reminded Henry of something. “But if this really is Camelot, where are King Arthur and all the knights? Asleep?”
Just as Emma had envisioned stained-glass windows and jesters, Henry had imagined swords clashing and jousting tournaments. He wondered if Camelot would be worth a return trip by daylight.
Merlin sighed and ran a hand through his snarled hair. “No, Arthur’s off fighting the Saxons, as usual.”
“Saxons? What are Saxons?” asked Henry.
“Greedy fellows who like to play with knives and spears, Saxons are. Thieving sorts and mean, drunken louts. Arthur spends all his time battling them. Always with the Saxons. I tell him there’s not much point in it, but nobody listens to old Merlin.”
“Not much point?”
“No. The Saxons will win in the end, Arthur knows that. And someone else will kill off the Saxons, eventually. It’s just the way things are, but you can’t tell Arthur anything. It’s in his nature to play with hissword, and honestly, he doesn’t listen very well.”
Henry, who more than once had the words “poor listening skills” written on his report card, thought for a minute and decided that he would probably rather go off to a glorious battle than sit in a muddy courtyard with a bunch of pigs and burning weeds.
“So, what else is going on, if Arthur’s not here?” Henry asked.
“Not much,” admitted Merlin. “The pigs root. The chickens lay eggs and peck at each other. The queen wanders around looking stately.”
“A queen?” Emma’s eyes got big.
“Yes,” said Merlin, “and if you want to, you can run along and meet her. Guinevere’s generally up about this time of night, rehearsing her despair in the moonlight.”
“I want to,” said Emma. “I want to see the queen, and this was my wish.”
“Fair enough,” said the wizard, nodding. “But before you go, a gift!” Merlin motioned to the dishes of weed water, cool in their hands. All this time, Henry, Emma, Susan, and Roy had been holding their dishes carefully. Now they peered into them.
“Just say one word,” said Merlin. “One word only. Whisper it into the dish, and the potion will give you a glimpse.”
“Just one word?” said Emma. “We shouldn’t ask it a question?”
“Heavens, no,” said Merlin. “Then you’d only get the future of the first word you asked,
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