Play Dead

Play Dead

Prologue Stories: Another Failed Potion, When Pigs Fly, The Peckuliars.

Only two things in the entire world will make Lizardo move: a warm sunbeam and Payanas – a magically delicious fruit tasting of banana and papaya.

But now there was a third.

What appeared to be a menacing black cloud blocking his beloved sun’s rays turned out to be a fast-flying large bird with a sharp, pointed beak.

Lizardo moved, kind of. You see, he was a magnificent lizard of both size and laziness. All he could do was roll deeper into the dense thicket of stinkweed and hope for the best.

Play dead. Shhh.

He could hear his late mother’s voice.

Lizardo! This is serious! Not sleepy, but dead, dead! No giggle!

And with a great eye roll and sigh, he would try again. His mother would nudge him under his armpit. It would tickle. He would giggle. She would repeat the exercise with a stern insistence.

He had never needed the lesson in these past many years. But today was no fire drill. He shut his eyes and was still. No breath in. No breath out. He thought of his mother. He missed her.

When a large “thump” landed next to him, he didn’t flinch. Then came a “sniff, sniff, mmm,” followed by a nudge under his armpit. It tickled. He giggled.

“Whoa!” said the large black vulture, jumping backwards.

Lizardo peaked at the bird and realized that “playing dead” to a voracious carrion-eating vulture was a super bad idea.

“You eat dead things, don’t you?” asked Lizardo.

The vulture nodded.

“Great. ’cause I’m alive. Now, buzz off.”

The vulture prioritized duty and pulled out a piece of paper; he glanced quickly at it and, with inspection, asked, “Are you a newt?”

“Who’s asking?”

Lizardo had rolled back out of the stinkweeds and beyond the bird’s cast shadow. Moving back into position for his glorious sunbathing.

“My mother.”

“Humph. Who dat?” Dismissed Lizardo.

“Gretchen Wretched.”

“Never heard of her, kid,” replied Lizardo with his best “poker face.” He could hear his mother’s voice again.

Stay away from the Wretcheds, Lizardo! Horrible birds!

“What’s your name?”

“Reck. Pronounced wreck.” He waited for Lizardo’s introduction. But none came. He continued, “My brothers are Rage and Revenge. I have a sister named Ruin. Our mother sent us on a scavenger hunt. I am looking for a newt. I don’t know what one looks like.”

“Chatty, aren’t you? Um, they’re large with brown fir and antlers. They eat bog beans. I gotta go. Lots to do.”

“Wait. What are you?” asked Reck, squinting and leaning in for a closer look.

No answer came from Lizardo. They locked eyes. Regardless of playing dead or being alive, Lizardo was in trouble.

Lizardo, move! Get under something! Go, go, go!

Just as Lizardo had decided upon his next move, Reck was “pinged” in the head with a Payana. The cannon-like force sent the vulture stumbling backward, causing him to trip and fall. The orange and black spotted fruit continue to rain down on him with bullseye accuracy.

Finally rising, Reck took flight and noisily called to his siblings.

“Crisis averted,” Lizardo thought and began collecting the downed Payanas. He was hungry. Arnold, the Flying Pig, landed beside him.

“Had it under control.” He said nonchalantly, looking at the ground as he picked up the paper Reck dropped.

Arnold smiled and said, “Uh-huh. Looked like it.” He was relieved his friend was ok.

Lizardo turned his attention to the paper. The title was “Recipe for a Dragon.” The ingredients:

• toe of frog
• owlet’s wing
• eye of newt
• lizard’s leg

“We must go. Warn the others,” said Arnold with a seriousness.

Lizardo had gone nowhere before. He paused.

They will be back. Go with Arnold. Listen to your mother!

Lizardo listened to his mother and nodded to Arnold.

“You got a good arm.”

“I’m in a league!” Arnold said gleefully. Fluttering his wings and levitating slightly. He was just the happiest little flying pig.

And so, the two friends wandered into the forest, talking about baseball and spring fever. They were heading to see the Peckuliars, a group of seven blackbirds that oversee the Knockwood Forest.

But much like a telephone party line, word had already travelled. The flowers and trees would pass on the occurrence to each other and then onto the group of blackbirds. The only problem would be another occurrence. Would the Peckuliars get the message in time?

Next up…Eye of Newt

Stay tuned for more stories from The Knockwood Forest!