The Orphan and the Thief

Chapter 7: Ogres and Ballads

When the witch told him to get her stupid teapot, Toad agreed only because he wasn't in the mood to argue with her and Melena. He stomped around inside her wagon, banging into things, making more noise than was necessary—

"I say, could you be a tad quieter in your rampaging?"

Toad's head whipped around. His jaw dropped.

"Much better," praised the beer mug.

"You're — you're —"

"Take your time," the beer mug encouraged.

"You're Joe!"

"You've heard of me?" cried the mug, delighted.

"Jack talked about you all the time!" Toad couldn't believe his eyes. After years of hearing about the Bewitched Beer Mug of Thieves, here he was! Sitting upon a cluttered shelf, between a basket of knitting needles and a gaudy old necklace.

"Jack? Do you mean Jack the Barbarian?" inquired the mug sharply.

"Nah. Jack Pinch of the Ramblers."

"Oh, no. I was never owned by a Jack Pinch of the Ramblers. But Jack the Barbarian did talk a great deal — perhaps that was how your Jack heard of me?"

Toad glanced over his shoulder. He could hear through the walls of the wagon that Melena and the fortuneteller were talking.

"He was a dastardly fellow," the beer mug continued happily. "Truly repugnant. And smelled! Ah, lad, the stench could knock over an ox! And his brother Jenkins — I made up a poem about him."

The mug fussily cleared his throat:

"Jittery Jenkins jumps and jingles

Jumbles and bumbles

Bungles and Tumbles —"

Toad snatched the mug off the shelf and tucked him away inside his coat, the poem now muffled as Joe, unperturbed, continued to recite. Toad waited inside the wagon until the mug had finished.

He hadn't planned on telling Melena about Joe, but when Joe began to sing, there wasn't much he could do to hide that. He didn't care that Melena didn't like Joe. Having an enchanted beer mug with them had to come in handy.

The air between them was frigid as Melena set about gathering sticks for another fire, and Toad, sick of Holly-Harp, argued that they should press on through the night, sparking a furious argument to erupt.

"WE'RE MAKING A FIRE AND THAT'S THAT!" Melena bellowed.

Stewing, Toad stomped through the darkening underbrush, looking for twigs. Who'd put her in charge, anyway? If he was calling the shots, they'd already be out of this bloody forest. Melena was an uppity, controlling nag. What did he need her for? He was the one who got the unicorn hair! She'd just stood there like a gaping goldfish! He didn't need her! He didn't need anyone! He — Toad, son of Bonaparte Yuff, Pirate of the High Seas and wrangler of wolf eels — was the Thief Lord! He was ... he ...

Toad stopped in his tracks; the armful of sticks he'd collected cascaded from his grip. His gaze was unfocused, his mind a sudden delirious whirl.

"Master Toad?" asked Joe from the belt loop that Toad had tied the mug's handle to. "Are we playing a new game now? I must say the 'pick up sticks' was a bit monotonous, but I am quite fond of impersonations." The mug quickly grew excited. "You look just like a trout, Master Toad! That's what you are, isn't it? I'll have a go now, shall I?" Joe stuck out his tongue. "Guess what I am, Master Toad!" he said, sounding like a child at a party.