The Princess and The Reluctant Knight

Episode 16

Sir Simon had envisioned his arrival at the Sea of Madness, when the horizon would unveil a grand galleon with sails unfurling like an almighty storm bird's wings, ready to whisk him off to his destiny. However, he did not expect the astonishing sight before him.

Nestled snuggly between two outcrops of jagged stone, bobbed the most pitiful excuse for a vessel - a rowboat, and quite possibly the first ever crafted.

And to call it 'small' would be to grant it a dignity not deserved. The thing was ridiculously small, with peeling paint that suggested its last voyage was to ferry children across a park pond to count the spring's duck population, not to sail across the notorious Sea of Madness.

To add to the absurdity, a sign, etched with the words 'Reserved for Sir Simon', was propped against the single oar that lay within the boat - a sorry specimen with handles cracked as if chewed on by the sea itself. Beside it, a wooden bucket, the kind more suited to building sandcastles than bailing water, completed the sorry tableau.

He blinked-once, twice, thrice, as if the sheer force of his disbelief might dispel the vision. But the rowboat remained, as did the ocean's mocking whisper.

"Reserved for me?" he muttered under his breath. "What trickery is this? Am I to battle mystical sea creatures in a child's toy?"

A gull cawed overhead, its cry a mocking laugh at his plight. His gauntlet-clad hands itched for his sword, though what good it would do him here was as uncertain as the insanity of the sea itself.

With a heavy sigh that bore the weight of resignation, he approached the vessel.

His hand hovered above the sign, half expecting it to dissolve into the ether, a figment of some fevered dream. Yet it was solid, all too solid, and as he ran a finger over the carved letters, a splinter lodged itself into his already wounded pride.

The knight grimaced, extracting the woeful wooden shard as he contemplated his next move.

The boat bobbed, as if urging him to cast aside his hesitation. "Very well," he declared, "if it is madness you want, it is Sir Simon you shall get."

He clambered into the boat with an ungainly heave that set it rocking perilously. Once seated upon the threadbare bench, he took up the oar with a dubious glance. It seemed more likely to snap than to steer. But he was a knight of the realm. And if his tale was to end in farce, then so be it.

No sooner had he settled into the vessel than it lurched beneath him with a suddenness that defied the gentle lapping of the waves.

His heart leapt into his throat as the rowboat shot forward like a hare startled from its thicket.

The single oar slipped from his grasp, clattering against the boat's side before trailing in the water.

"What sorcery is this?" he exclaimed, grappling for the oar as the boat picked up a speed that would shame the swiftest galleon. His fingers closed around the cracked handle, holding on as if it were the lifeline to his very soul.

The wind, perhaps taking offense at his earlier cursing or simply seizing the opportunity to indulge in the humor of the situation, whipped around him with a howl that could awaken spirits. His cloak flapped, the fabric straining against its clasps.

Simon, whose experience with boats was limited to grander ships, where one's standing was determined by the height of the mast and not the propensity to capsize, found himself woefully out of his element.

He clung to the rowboat as it skimmed over waves and troughs.

"To whom do I owe the pleasure of this bewitched ride?" he shouted into the wind, half-expecting a sea witch to surface.