Atticus Fletcher departed the following morning, taking with him only a sack of supplies and two deadweights.

The two deadweights’ names were Harry and Julianne. They were quite nice, really—not that Atticus would have known that—but they were both Valley folk, and neither of them was Atticus Fletcher. In short, they were completely useless. But Douglas had insisted, and with minimal eye-rolling Atticus had obliged to take them along.

After the mud wore off and the footprints largely stopped, Tiffany’s trail became much harder to follow. Even Atticus had trouble tracking her—not that he would ever have admitted it—though there were signs, here and there, that the small party was moving in the right direction. Tiffany had left very little trace; whoever chased her had, it seemed, left even less.

But Atticus would not give up easily. He had never failed a thing in his life, and he most certainly didn’t intend to start now.

(You may think that is an exaggeration. I assure you, I thoroughly searched my memories of Atticus Fletcher’s life, and found myself unable to recall a single instance in which anything short of total victory was achieved.)

Determined to avoid an acquaintance with defeat, Atticus Fletcher and his deadweights moved onward. Harry and Julianne were of little help; all of the tracking and trailblazing was left to Atticus. Not that he minded—in fact, he preferred it that way. A scrap of thread caught on a low bush sent them in one direction, a violently broken branch in another, and they quickly left the Valley far, far behind.

At noon, Atticus bridged a river with a fallen tree. Harry and Julianne crossed behind him.

In the evening, Atticus killed two rabbits and cooked them into stew. Harry and Julianne helped with the eating part.

At sundown, it started to rain, and Atticus put up a makeshift shelter with his bare hands. Harry and Julianne thanked him, and promptly went to sleep.

The next day, Harry and Julianne returned to the Valley.

Yes, yes, you read correctly. Let me explain.

Many factors contributed to Harry and Julianne’s abrupt departure from the quest, but what really did it could have been one of a few things:

It could have been the fact that both of them snored rather loudly, both of them waking each other constantly in the night.

It could have been their discomfort, as neither had ever before slept a night outside of the comfort of their cozy Valley home.

It could also have been Harry’s urgent need for medical attention.

You know, looking back, it was probably that last one.

Harry, as it happened, had the misfortune of attracting the attention of a curious spider in the night. As the marks on his skin indicated he had only been bitten once, I do not believe the spider particularly liked the taste of him, but unfortunately, that one bite did a significant amount of damage. Harry woke, weak and pale, feeling as though he might collapse at any moment. That feeling was especially worrisome, as he had not even yet stood up.

(Word to the wise: If a man in a horizontal position complains of feeling as though he may collapse, you may want to take him to a doctor.)

Now, I would like to apologize for one thing. I have not given Julianne nearly enough credit in this story.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, she was a terrible knight. All of the knights were, barring Atticus Fletcher himself. She was careless, and she was lazy, and she was weak. But she did care about Harry. She was a good friend, and in this instance, that trumped every negative quality she had.

I have since confirmed that Harry survived this ordeal. He made it back to the Valley, where his bite was treated. He made a full recovery and currently holds a silver medal in Olympic air rifle. And it was Julianne who saved him, Julianne who hauled him back to the Valley on her shoulders, one laborious step at a time. So, while she was useless in the vast majority of scenarios, I will give credit where credit is due. That was downright heroic.

It also left Atticus entirely alone.

And let’s be honest. For the sake of efficiency, that was not a bad thing.

The timing of Harry and Julianne’s departure turned out to be extremely fortunate. Atticus had been alone on Tiffany’s trail for less than an hour when he found the next footprint.

Do not mistake my meaning. This was not the footprint of the missing princess. Not unless missing princesses have massive, padded feet, complete with wicked claws protruding from the toes. No, this was certainly not Tiffany’s.

It could only belong, Atticus decided, to a—

(Now is the time for the test. What’s that? You don’t remember the test? How silly of you; I assure you, I did mention it. It isn’t my fault you weren’t paying attention in chapter one.)

—bear.

(There you go. I’ll let it slide, just this once. Be sure to pay better attention in the future.)

Atticus, as we have established, was far and away the bravest man in the Valley. But at the sight of the bear tracks, his stomach flopped and his mouth went dry. Just a little. Well, more than a little, but it isn’t as though he ever would have admitted it.

But while it’s true—as you’ve no doubt figured out—that Atticus was a terrible, terrible person, I really am not lying about the bravery. Once again, credit where credit is due. And credit certainly is due, for after he saw the bear tracks, after the butterflies inside him went on the fritz, he kept walking.

He kept walking anyway.

Atticus continued to track his betrothed, her trail taking him farther up the mountain and deeper into the dense woods. Twice, he thought he had lost her completely, but some miracle always brought him back onto the right path. ‘Path’ being figurative, in this case, as Atticus was really just tromping through plants. And plants. And more plants. He’d never cared much for plants. (Living entities separate from himself? Please.)

Needless to say, this experience did not change his mind.

Had that bear crossed his path, I doubt it would have attacked him. I doubt it would have posed any threat whatsoever; on the contrary, I am inclined to believe it would have been frightened off by the loud—and frankly, terrifying—string of vulgarities let loose by Atticus Fletcher as he chased after his would-be wife.

But no, that bear did not cross his path.

Excuse me. I apologize, I seem to have forgotten to italicize one very important word. Kindly allow me to try that again. Ahem.

But no, that bear did not cross his path.

The bear that crossed his path was much, shall we say… smaller.

Atticus Fletcher ended up killing two bears that day.

Oh, don’t you start. I can spoil anything I’d like to—I’m the author. And besides, if I can accustom you to having everything spoiled before it happens, you are far more likely to be blindsided by the plot twist later.

(Forget that last sentence. Not important.)

It is truly amazing, how quickly a noisy series of expletives can attract a curious bear. The bear in question, in this case, was only a cub, black and mangy and, if I’m being honest, simply adorable.

(Its name was Paul. Feel free to judge all you like—Reuben’s the one who named it, later on, when Atticus related this tale to the Valley folk. I don’t much like his choice, myself, but the name stuck despite my best efforts.)

Paul the cub looked up at Atticus with wide, eyes, brimming with innocent curiosity. There was a moment of absolute stillness, as the bear looked at Atticus, and Atticus looked at the bear. Neither of them moved.

Then Atticus, as you might expect, drew his sword.

Paul the cub was young, and had little experience with the world. However, he was not a fool, and he could see that the object the tall stranger held was sharp. And instinctively, he knew that meant danger. In less than a second, Atticus Fletcher went from strange curiosity to DEFCON one threat.

So the young bear did what anyone in their right mind (except for Atticus, but then again, in his case ‘right mind’ is up for debate) would have done. He called his mother.

No, not on a phone. What a silly, silly mind you have. He shouted!

And unfortunately for Atticus, his mother heard the cry.

But the brunt of the day’s misfortune fell on Paul, for Atticus was still holding the sword. The small bear’s call for help stopped abruptly, and red-stained silver glinted in what little sunlight reached beneath the treetops. Poor, poor Paul breathed his last.

And his mother burst into Atticus’s path.

I would love to call Atticus a fool now, but this did end up working out well enough for him in the end. So a fool, perhaps, but who can really say?

Once again I must credit the man for his bravery. I have it on good authority he was scared to death, but the first thing he did when that absolutely massive beast leapt in front of him was raise his sword, falling into stance.

Say what you will, Atticus Fletcher was brave. Crazy. Some combination of the two, probably. He faced that bear—the mother of the cub he had killed—in perfect stance, a sword still dripping with blood held at the ready, and he didn’t even have the benefit of knowing the rhyme.

(You know the one. “If it’s black, fight back; if it’s brown, lie down; if it’s white, goodnight…”)

Now, we are assuming the rhyme holds merit. And in that case, had this bear been brown, Atticus Fletcher would probably have died that day. But as always, Atticus lucked out. His failures are coming, I promise—just not quite yet.

This bear was black. And Atticus had an incredible fighting instinct.

The scream that tore from his throat flooded the air as only a warrior’s unadulterated rage could, with a power behind it that stopped the bear in its tracks. Not for long, mind you; the hesitation lasted only for one fleeting moment.

But this is Atticus Fletcher we are talking about. A moment is more than enough.

It only took one stroke of the sword, and Atticus had felled his second beastly foe. (That’s if you count Paul as a ‘beastly foe’—Reuben still insists he was too cute to be called beastly. I cannot count how many times I have had to remind him that he was not, in fact, present, and never saw the cub.)

Atticus took a moment of pause, looked from Paul to his mother.

Then shrugged, cleaned his blade on the nearby plants, and moved on.



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Tune in next Friday, October 4 for episode four…