Cal carried a hoe in one hand, while the other wiped away the dirt-caked sweat that dribbled down his brow.

Inspired by the sight of naturists sunbathing in the buff, the timid sun of yester-hour had stripped off its cloudy robe and now blazed with scandalous fervour onto the world.

Bested by the heat, Cal had given up on loosening the soil in their plot and now only looked forward to taking an afternoon nap.

He made for the shed behind their house, dipping in and out of the patches of shade on the way, the air alternating between calid and cool.

Passing by the house, a voice called out from within. “Are you done with the soil, Cal?”

“It’s too hot, Mum. I’m going to lie down for a bit.” He flicked his head at the window above but couldn’t see her; going off the pitch of her voice, he figured she must be further in. “I didn’t know you were back from fishing.”

“Got back earlier,” she replied, her tone sluggish and flat, “came in through the backdoor.” Definitely lying down, most likely flicking a paper fan to her face. And just as likely he’d be conscripted to take over from her weary and oh-so-pitiful hand the second he stepped indoors.

Were he at this point to make the argument he’d been working in the field for several hours and was himself exhausted, she’d undoubtedly respond via the Calvin-Hubbles-!-Do-you-know-how-much-of-a-pain-it-was-carrying-your-fat-arse-for-nine-months? line of attack; there would be no room for negotiation, as to be expected when going against someone who possessed wit rivalling that of a baboon, and civility akin to a buffoon’s.

In fact, it was said that whenever fate or time needed advice on how to be a cruel mistress, that they would seek his mum for counsel (Cal had coined this quip at the start of his summer holiday, though it had yet to catch on with the other villagers.)

Idly wondering if he should maybe change the wording in case that’s what was preventing them from realising the genius of it, he made his way through the sandy backyard towards the chestnut tree; where in its shade squatted the shed, varnish faded from the boards and its door perennially ajar ever since the lock had succumbed to rust last summer.

As Cal approached, kicking chestnuts from his path and reflexively swatting at the gnats playing tag nearby, it occurred to him he could nap right here under the tree’s cover. How nice that would be with the breeze coasting across his face, while his mum eagerly waited on forced labour that would never materialise. The edges of his lips curled in an impish simper.

At his shove, the shed door creaked open, moaning of the same rust that had taken its cousin. He placed the hoe on a shelf beside other tools and forgotten curios that’d taken refuge inside over the years, and watched as a nearby spider scurried into hiding.

Mind equal parts languid from the heat and smug from dodging the draft, Cal was straightening up to leave when a shock erupted inside his chest. His right arm shot towards the shelf in a bid to balance himself while his left attended to the pain that had mysteriously vanished as quick as it had come.

The ebb in pain confused him almost as much as its sudden onset, but there was no time to dwell as a subsequent wave crashed into him: this time a stab in the head, with splinters of pain lancing down into his torso.

So overwhelming were these pangs that his sea of consciousness reduced to a puddle of carmine red; seconds passing, awareness fading. And only then was he released, water surging in his puddle of consciousness and washing out the bloody red; a ragged sigh escaped his lips while his mind rebooted, now synchronised.

“Woah,” he said examining his dirt-smudged palms, turning them over to peer at the mountainous range of knuckles and thicket of bristly blond hairs. “This looks so realistic!”

Where the pain had died a moment ago, panic now bloomed like wild poppies in Cal’s mind. It’s not me speaking. And yet it absolutely is. He tried to move his arm, his leg, anything, but found them all out of reach; while he could still feel his body, he no longer had control.

So who did?

“Now I see why those reviewers were raving about this,” the usurper said in his voice. His speech was flavoured with a giddiness that Cal could both hear and sense within.

The usurper reached out to the shelf ahead and grabbed a trowel. Holding it in front, he squeezed the handle, then relaxed his grip, switching to and fro between the two states with childlike wonder. “I can even accurately control the pressure. This is amazing!”

Not so for Cal. But through his observations, slivers of relief were now beginning to chip away at his initial avalanche of panic. Although some ghastly entity has indeed stolen my body, at least it’s a bumpkin to the fact of life, a holidaymaker to the corporal world if you will.

He tried to think positive: it could have been much worse after all. What if it had instead been a spirit all too familiar with the world, say, a homicidal maniac bent on vengeance? I don’t even want to think about it…

“This is a weird place to start, though.” The usurper set aside the trowel and surveyed the shed that was half-lit by the slips of sunlight through the doorway. “Let’s get some light in here first.” He pushed the door open and propped it in place using a cracked ceramic flowerpot, then gave his better-illuminated surroundings a once-over.

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He grinned to himself (or at the high definition image of dust motes swirling in the air, take your pick). “Ah, I see. I’m meant to equip myself in here before commencing the tutorial. I guess it beats the old waking-up-in-my-room start.”

Cal was stumped. Had the spirit done this before – if not in this world, then in other worlds Cal was unaware of? Was it a body-hopping philanderer, perhaps? If so, this was his first time so he would have appreciated a little more gentleness.

Meanwhile, the spirit scanned the items on the shelves. “Let’s see, hmm, alright, okay.” It stared at the objects in the shed for a weirdly long time, reinforcing Cal’s belief the spirit was not familiar with this world at the very least: why else would it stroke his chin and ponder on an old, broken bucket for so long?

In the past the bucket had been used to gather water from the well, but that was before its copper straps had come loose and the wooden slats on one side had collapsed in. No matter how hard the spirit looked at it, there would be nothing more to it than an old, broken bucket with a rusty wire handle.

Yet a moment later, Cal’s mounting relief at the scene was replaced by a different – but equally disturbing – panic.

The spirit grabbed the bucket and shoved it onto his head, placing the collapsed side over his eyes to allow visibility with the handle hanging under his chin, while ignoring the lingering musty whiff that assailed his nose. “Ah, this will have to do for now.” Next, the spirit grabbed a pitchfork leaning on the walls, then promptly walked out into the bright afternoon sun.

Clearing his throat and thumping at his chest, the usurper straightened himself and held the pitchfork gallantly like a lance. His voice swelled, taking on a grander tone. “And so begins the adventures of Ser Penbrooke, champion of the meek, saviour of princesses, and scourge of rascals and beasts alike.”

His earnest words carried across the backyard, no doubt sounding impressive to the multitude of insects that made up his audience, who broadcasted their excitement through noisy buzzing and chittering.

Meanwhile, Cal had stopped processing what was going on: his previously quashed fears had combined with new ones to create a maddening medley which now whispered in his ears, siren-like, that this was all but a fever dream. He could only pray so.

Elsewise, if Penbrooke’s fashion sense and proud proclamation were anything to go by, it was pretty safe to say Cal’s public image was in for a thrashing, perhaps even immutable execution. So why then, instead of the dread he should have felt in the pit of his stomach at this, was his body relaying excitement and joy?

Chest puffed out, Penbrooke was crossing the backyard when his mum’s head popped out of the first-floor window. There was a moment of silence as the world around them paused out of respect. Penbrooke stared in wonder at her face, helplessly caught in the deep blue of her eyes and the blonde curls artfully styled to make it look like she had just woken up from lying on her face.

Simultaneously, her eyes flitted across his profile, taking in what she saw and attempting to reconcile it with the boy she knew, blink, trying again, blink.

Amidst this, Cal’s soul floated out of his body shedding tears of blood, ditching his body as free real estate (or in the case of competition, going to the lowest bidder). He couldn’t do anything to make Penbrooke reverse back into the shed, shut the door, and curl up into a ball on the floor, but he dearly wished he could.

“What a gorgeous lady, a fairy of the forests, no doubt,” Penbrooke exclaimed, energy coursing through him down to his fingers; he bowed with exaggerated grace. “Through what fae name may I address you, fair madam?”

As it had only been a few seconds since his wish, Cal still had time to change it. So now he wished he would die on the spot, instead.

“Mother,” his mum said, her mouth operating independently as it was clear her brain was still fully occupied processing the sight in front of her. “Mum, more often these days.” Her lips faintly curled up at the edges. “Historically, it used to be mummy look at this, mummy can we do that?, mummy I just had an oopsie in my pants. Although I’m not against a heartfelt mama every now and then to spice it up.”

Unfortunately the rules were that a wish could only be modified once, and so Cal couldn’t change his wish again to have the house collapse and take his mum with it.

“Ah, it appears I have the better deal over those who have a fairy for their godmother,” Penbrooke said, his voice taking on a melodious lilt. “Mother dearest, light of my life, do you have a quest for me? Perchance something to start the tutorial.”

Blink. His mum stared right at him, maybe even through him. Blink, blink. “Now that you mention it, I just realised I forgot my fishing rod by the lake. Could you go get it?”

“Aha, there it appears,” Penbrooke exclaimed, making bizarre gestures in the air. “Liliane Hubbles’s Missing Rod. The reward of 10 xp is exactly what I need to level up.” He gazed upwards to the right, towards the shimmering blue sky and in the direction of the lake well out of sight. “Not too far for a fetch quest either.”

But before he could leave, his mum spoke up. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving without giving your mumsy-wumsy a goodbye kiss like you always do.” She tapped her cheek with her index finger, pouting. “It’s what all the good little knight aspirants do nowadays. Very chic, I hear. Or was it chivalrous?”

What the… the last time I did that was when I was ten! Spirit, don’t listen to her – it’s a trap. I bet she’s planning to exorcise you if you go near her!

…

Wait, no... Spirit, go near her and let her exorcise you! I beg you, please!

Oblivious to Cal’s well-intentioned advice, Penbrooke coughed into his fist and glanced away, mumbling, “Well, I mean, if that’s what we always do…”

He twirled the ball of his foot into the sandy ground, considering it, before answering, “Alas, it’ll have to wait until I’m back, my fairy mother, for the quest comes first before the reward. But fear not, for even if I have to fight tooth and nail with wolves or tussle with brigands of the forest, I will make certain to return here with your fishing rod. That I swear upon my name as Ser Penbrooke of Twirdly Castle”

Disappointed, his mother shook her head and disappeared from the window, leaving behind mutterings to be carried in the wind. “Must be in his rebellious phase, all of a sudden not wanting to be close to his mother dearest anymore.” She snorted and chuckled wryly. “Teenage boys and their fantasies, honestly.”

To hell with you, old bat! Come down here and save me already.

In his incensed state of mind, it took time for Cal to catch up to his new reality. Questions bubbled forth over Penbrooke’s speech, even though he knew there would only be further questions for answers.

In the first place, why would there be wolves or brigands in this area? Did Penbrooke know something Cal didn’t, or was the man as mad as he seemed? Moreover, how had his mum forgotten her fishing rod by the lake? It wasn’t loose change slipping out of your pocket territory anymore when it came to a giant rod you had just been fishing with…

Only when Penbrooke was a few minutes down the road, pitchfork in hand and broken bucket on head, did the most troubling concern work through Cal’s jumbled mind: the lake was on the other side of the village. His mum had most graciously placed Penbrooke on a collision course with the general public…

Gee, mother dearest, indeed.