Thronegarden by Andrew Dickerson (top rated books of all time .txt) 📕

“We wait for the Peritwinkle to find us,” the princess revealed.

The strange duo continued their journey while the moon remained high and distant howls could be heard over the persistent wind. By accident they stumbled upon large impressions in the snow that could only belong to a Peritwinkle; the footprints were so large Damselfly could lay down flat within the depressed snow.

“What happens when the Peritwinkle finds us?” Buttontail asked reluctantly.

“Perhaps he won’t be so mean after all,” Damselfly reasoned.

“And if he is?” Buttons questioned.

“I have my sword,” the princess replied, looking uncertainly at her broken blade.

“We’re doomed,” Buttons pronounced.

Buttontail’s fear battled against his increasing hunger until he slipped into a troubled sleep. Damselfly walked to keep them warm although her toes and fingers were already numb. Eventually, Damselfly was forced to sit with her back against a large redwood tree blanketed in snow. Buttontail awoke feeling hungry and so the motivated rabbit began searching the ground for grass or berries hidden by the covering of snow. Using his proficient nose, Buttontail investigated, hoping to ease his hollow stomach. Finding a promising patch of long grass poking out of the drifts, Buttontail utilized his forepaws to dig through the lying snow. Damselfly was feeling light-headed. She had a feeling that there was something important she had to do though it seemed just out of reach. Looking up, she caught sight of Buttons running towards her. Behind him, an avalanche of snow was revealing a terrifying creature.

“You did it, Buttons,” Damselfly cried. “You found the Peritwinkle.”

The Peritwinkle stood ten-foot-tall, covered with long, coarse bristles insulated by grey fur that still had patches of snow sticking to it. Damselfly stared up at the enormous creature that had a large head with small deep-set eyes and long ears that rested flat against the side of the animal’s head. Two sharp tusks made of bone framed the boar’s face and a breath of warm fetid air pushed Damselfly back against the tree trunk. As the Peritwinkle lowered his head to get a better view of his visitors, Damselfly noticed a hump between the creature’s shoulder blades that sloped down to his powerful hindquarters and rather thin legs.

“Hello,” Damselfly greeted.

The Peritwinkle did not initially seem to notice the small girl and stuffed rabbit that had trespassed into his territory.

“Hello,” the princess repeated.

This time the giant boar did hear. He thrust his large head towards the sound and breathed a gust of warm air in their direction.

“Who are you?” the Peritwinkle demanded.

“My name is Damselfly and this is Buttontail.”

“Very strange names,” the giant boar muttered agitatedly.

“We need your help,” Damselfly called out.

“My help?” the Peritwinkle shook his head.

“The villagers need to hunt in this wood, and there is plenty of room for everyone,” Damselfly began.

“No,” the Peritwinkle roared. “I do not like men.”

“Why not?” the princess enquired.

“They cut down trees, dirty the waters and build destructive fires,” the Peritwinkle explained.

“Perhaps we could help you in exchange for letting men in the wood again,” Damselfly suggested.

“You can’t help me,” the Peritwinkle dismissed.

“So there is something that you need,” Damselfly discerned.

The Peritwinkle angrily brushed against some nearby trees, sending pieces of bark flying in his agitation.

“You seem very angry,” Damselfly observed.

“Wouldn’t you be angry if you woke up early to find no food, no company and snow everywhere. I just want to be left alone, but people and wolves keep coming into my wood and I won’t have it.”

Damselfly considered the creature’s words carefully before realising something important.

“I think you’re lonely,” she ventured.

“I don’t get lonely,” the Peritwinkle disagreed. “What do you expect anyway? There are not many of us around these days.”

“Have you ever met another Peritwinkle like you?” Damselfly asked.

“Well, of course I have,” the animal answered, although he seemed a little uncertain.

“I think ’Periwinkles are very rare,” Damselfly continued.

“We certainly are,” the creature agreed self-importantly.

“Perhaps you are the only one,” the princess advised.

“Maybe I am, after all.” The Peritwinkle shuddered.

The giant boar lowered itself heavily to the ground where it gave a low growl before settling in a miserable heap.

“Oh dear, I did not mean to upset you,” Damselfly worried.

The Peritwinkle huffed, sending a flurry of snow spiraling upwards. He seemed to have no intention of moving or talking any further.

“I know how to cheer you up,” Damselfly announced. “Whenever I feel low Old Nana reads me a story and I feel much better.”

“I don’t like stories,” the Peritwinkle said gloomily.

“Sure, you do, everyone likes stories,” the princess persisted.

“Not me,” the Peritwinkle stated stubbornly.

“But this story is all about you,” Damselfly insisted.

“Well, I guess you could tell me it, though I probably shan’t enjoy it,” the Peritwinkle begrudgingly agreed.

Damselfly cleared her throat nervously under the Peritwinkle’s discerning gaze and began to sing.

A Peritwinkle can strike faster than a spitting cobra.

His ire can be raised quicker than a Silverback gorilla.

He is more cunning than a fox wiser than the owl.

If you’re still breathing it won’t be long now.

Damselfly finished singing the poem. A long silence followed, which even the tempestuous Peritwinkle restrained from breaking.

“What did you think of it?” Damselfly asked.

“You have a very pleasant voice,” the Peritwinkle replied stiffly, unfamiliar with giving others compliments.

“Thank you.” the princess curtsied.

“Well, I liked the part about me being cunning.” The Peritwinkle desperately tried to change the subject. “I am also surprisingly quick for my size,” the Peritwinkle boasted.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Damselfly added.

“However, you did make it sound like I was always angry and ferocious,” the Peritwinkle commented. “In fact, I do not like this poem about me at all. Who is telling such awful lies about me?”

“It is only a silly poem,” Damselfly