Saturday's Storyteller: "Jeffy picked the nose of the bust of Abraham Lincoln, which opened a secret door in Grandma's study."

by Belinda Roddie

Jeffy picked the nose of the bust of Abraham Lincoln, which opened a secret door in Grandma's study. He had always had a strange inclination to do something wacky like that - in fact, when he had visited the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C. back when he was six, he had wished greatly to pick the nose of the giant statue, similar to a particularly fun episode of Ren and Stimpy. For a long time, Grandma had kept a bust of Van Buren, mostly because she found his mutton chops to be, sarcastically, endearing. But after Jeffy's pleas to see Honest Abe's nasal cavity violated, his granny was eager to oblige.

The young boy had known about his grandma's study since he was seven, when he had seen her disappear seemingly into the wall of the small room where she kept what he called a decoy library. Her study had taller shelves of copious volumes and tomes, most of them beautifully bound, swirling in a spiral formation around her desk. Jeffy shuffled over to where his grandmother was sitting, scribbling something down on what appeared to be parchment, and took a seat in the big, green chair across from her.

"You're late," she rasped, not looking up from her writing.

Jeffy sighed apologetically. "Soccer practice ran late, Gran."

"Hmmph. I see. Those eighth grade buffoons still hassling you?"

"Not as much. They like seventh graders a little bit more than sixth graders."

"Only a little, huh?"

Jeffy laughed.

"So, you understand why I asked you to visit me here, correct?" asked Grandma.

"I do. I got your note."

She exhaled, the air whistling through her nose, keenly affected by a minimally deviated septum. She put down her pen and pushed up her old-fashioned pince-nez.

"It concerns your uncle. My youngest. It seems that he's gotten himself tangled up with the...misfits, as it were. You know the drill. Take a potion and an axe with you. Make sure it's been sharpened."

Jeffy stiffened. "Am I still on level one of the deal?"

"Refresh me."

"The tomahawk," he clarified.

Grandma looked at him in a somewhat bewildered fashion before shaking her head and clicking her tongue. "Oh, no, no, no, my boy. That simply will not do. I am preparing a letter for his Royal Highness, to inform him that the misfits are being dealt with. He would not be pleased to see Uncle Nicholas stuck in an iron pillory again. Took seventeen different keys to get him out last time."

"So what do I get now?"

"The battle axe," scoffed Grandma, "obviously. You've got some meat on you since your last assignment. I'll offer you the two-handed one. The potion should be drunk only when the time is right. Wait for the misfits to drop their guard."

The misfits, as Jeffy remembered, were definitely ones to be susceptible to gullibility. The potion, if he was correct, would render their arms too heavy to lift to swing at him. Uncle Nick probably had gotten mixed up in their gambling rings again, most likely unable to pay his dues. His Royal Highness had warned him several times to stay away, but Jeffy's uncle had a habit that could not be curtailed.

"Right, so the potion and the axe. As for defense?"

"You'll find the chainmail in your bedroom. All cleaned and polished."

"Brilliant. Thanks, Gran. I was worrying about the rust."

"If you need anything," she wheezed, "you know which notes to play on your recorder."

"I won't let you down."

"No, no," she corrected. "Not me. Your uncle and his Royal Highness. You remember that now, Jeffrey."

***

"So let me get this straight," groaned Alan, who had wheeled his bicycle around to Jeffy's driveway just in time to see him rattle out with the battle axe propped against his back. "Your grandma's sending you to take care of the misfits - again - because your uncle can't keep his wallet closed?"

"Seems like it," chuckled Jeffy as he adjusted the mantle of his chainmail. "In the end, it's almost like a nine to five job."

"In that it takes a while and pays you low wages?"

"In that it gets very predictable and repetitive."

Alan laughed. Out of all his more precocious friends, he was certainly Jeffy's most understanding. Many of his buddies stopped hanging out with him when he had to cancel hang-outs like bowling or miniature golf for the sake of taking on a drunk blue gremlin or confronting the diplomatic issues of the Cyclops Family and their business rivals, the Hook Nosed Behemoths. After doing this for about five years, Jeffy's brain was more than just creased with knowledge, and besides his fascination with American history, his reflexes, strategic thought process, and quick thinking was unparalleled compared to anyone in the town, let alone his grade. Alan was never jealous of Jeffy's strength or intellect at such a young age, like a Dungeons & Dragons character brought to life. He was simply envious of the opportunity to escape the constructs of the real world.

"You ought to encourage your grandma to let me join you," he said as he slowly pedaled his bike beside Jeffy as his friend walked - if nothing else, he provided ample distraction for possible bullies ready to sink their canines into the boys. "I think I could wield a sword."

"She wouldn't let you go," replied Jeffy. "Liability issues."

"Care to explain, Mister Dictionary?"

"It means that if anything happens to you," Jeffy sighed, "then your parents would never let us hear the end of it."

"Touché," whined Alan. "Dad and Pops would kill me."

"Yep."

Then Alan's eyes brightened. "But maybe they could use their judo skills to help us!"

"Look," said Jeffy, "I'd take you if I could. But this has got to be clean and painless. The last thing I want is one misfit to get away with my uncle's cash and lock him up in the dungeons."

"Suit yourself, mon capitan," griped Alan, mock-saluting Jeffy. "At least promise you'll have pizza with me whenever you get back."

"If it's got pepperoni, you've got yourself a deal."

"Go get 'em, tiger."

"See you later, alligator."

Alan hurtled down the street on his bike, looking back behind him before he whipped around the corner and was out of sight. Jeffy breathed deeply, cracked the joints in his neck, and manuevered his way toward the hollow oak tree where the door waited to be opened. To his amusement, he saw Abraham Lincoln's face carved into the trunk.

Gran knows how to humor me, he remembered, as he gripped the flagon that held the potion, shouldered his axe, and pushed himself through the tree's narrow entryway.

This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.