Cheese.

Of course it would be cheese.

All around me, the berry fields gave way to a far stranger sight. But that didn’t mean it was any less colourful. On the contrary, a rainbow lay scattered amidst the neatly lined soil.

And all of it was cheese.

Replacing the bountiful fruits which even Coppelia and Apple now politely declined, I saw wheels of orange mimolette, white chèvre, the bright red wax of gouda and things which were so green that I expected eyes to begin peeking back at me.

They were all half-buried, their shiny ends sticking out like pumpkins partially revealed in the dirt.

A farm stretching all the way to a quaint cottage monopolising a hill.

And what was being grown was cheese.

Lots and lots of cheese. All except the absolute worst one.

… Why, I didn’t see a speck of gorgonzola moulding in the dirt!

Ahead of me, a cottage promising the only prophet mad enough to attempt to grow cheese loomed. I expected little. After all, if this individual was at all halfway decent at his craft, then my dissatisfaction would have been predicted and averted.

“7.5/10,” I said with my hand clasped around my nose. “Ghastly. But not quite ghastly enough. To pepper his own land with cheese is a fine statement of lunacy. But to quietly do away with the most overpowering variety is more than half-hearted. It’s simply shoddy.”

Beside me, my loyal handmaiden merely giggled.

In a damning indictment of the cheese farm, not even Coppelia with her keen nose was succumbing to the waft of dairy melting beneath the sunlight. She was content to skip merrily along.

“Are we rating how bad it smells? In that case, it’s only a 2/10 for me.”

“Now that’s just silly. Why, for me, it only feels like I’ve accidentally wandered past my father’s wine cellar. But for you, surely the odour must be debilitating?”

“It’s not that bad. Compared to the towns of humans, even mouldy brie is fine. Probably because that’s what you find under people’s beds.”

I had nothing to offer but a hum of agreement. It was a powerful point.

“I’m not certain how you survive,” I said, shuddering on her behalf. “Given that brigands and nobility infect every road, the whiff must be permanently overbearing.”

“Eh, you get used to it. Plus it’s balanced out by the nice stuff. Like flowers.”

“I’ve only ever seen you eating flowers, not appreciating them.”

“It’s because I eat them that I appreciate them.”

She offered a curious glimpse towards a wedge of camembert melting into a puddle, then stopped to rescue a lone poppy from the coming ooze. A moment later, the flower promptly found itself safe and secure inside her mouth.

“I recommend it,” she said while loudly chewing. “You really appreciate the subtle intricacies this way.”

“Coppelia. You’re eating something plucked from the side of the road.”

“Yeah. And this one’s nice. The soil has just the right amount of moisture content. There’s also a hint of nutmeg somewhere. Want some?”

She offered me the remaining stem.

I leaned away as Apple took the offered fare in my stead. Sadly, even his valour wasn’t enough. No matter where I turned, the sheer pungency threatened to overwhelm me.

Eventually, it went even beyond that.

As Apple trotted up the hill towards the cottage, I was met by a sight more gruesome than any amount of gruyère left to rot in the fields. One only partially to do with the wooden sign waiting for me.

MEETINGS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

IF YOU ARE SURPRISED BY THIS MESSAGE,

IT MEANS YOU HAVE NO APPOINTMENT.

I raised an eyebrow.

Not at the warning marked entirely in bold lettering. That mattered as much to me as the protests of my kitchen staff who insisted shortcakes didn’t need inspecting at midnight.

Rather, I was more concerned with the perilous mountain of cheese stacked atop a long picnic table.

Everything which had ever once been curdled awaited my wrinkled nose.

Wheels of cheese derived from every variety lay piled like books after a late night session of studying, with equally as little regard to stability. As the faintest breeze swept across the hilltop, the topmost pillars trembled. A giant block of emmental teetered, an inch away from earning a new hole courtesy of the man sat beneath it at the table.

A shame. It would have improved his appearance drastically.

Here was the king of the hermits.

Wrinkled and unkempt, he wore bedraggled robes which may have once boasted colour, yet were now down to the last sinews. The hat of wizardry upon his brow was so frayed that it looked more likely to be swept away by the wind than shield against it, and the beard he boasted was as dishevelled as a wild hedgerow.

I almost failed to see any of it.

Because what my eyes were truly drawn to was the book he was absorbed in.

Calculating Advanced Calculus, 3rd Edition.

It was … horrifying.

I covered my mouth with both hands. And then my head as I instinctively sought to defend myself against a title so dull it could only be used as a weapon by my tutors.

He paid no heed to my arrival, instead choosing to indulge in his book.

Clearly the actions of a mad man. And also just the one I was looking for … proved a moment later as a hummingbird peeked out from within his beard.

Without breaking his stride, he turned a page, then leaned forwards slightly. The hummingbird began to chip away at the nearest wheel of cheese.

Coppelia turned to me with an excited smile.

“And that’s where the holes in cheese come from~”

I was aghast.

I came here for information … and yet I immediately wanted to unlearn what I’d just seen!

“Is … Is this the Mad Prophet?” I asked, already groaning at the answer.

“Mmh! Never met him before, but he’s reading the 3rd edition of Calculating Advanced Calculus. That’s at least two editions out of date. And if that doesn’t scream bonkers, I don’t know what does.”

I turned to regard the hermit once again.

He’d deemed that the birds in his beard had consumed enough dairy and was now shooing them back in with cat noises.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

For a moment, I simply closed my eyes in regret … before slowly dismounting from Apple.

To seek the assistance of a man whose madness meant a picnic table without so much as a sheet of linen to be mocked was appalling. But it could be worse. He could have been inside his cottage. And given the odour emanating from inside, that may very well have signalled the end of my personal history.

Thus, I walked over to the picnic table, all the while offering a stoic smile beneath my wrinkled nose.

“Salutations,” I said, pausing just out of toppling range from a stack of cheddar. “My apologies for disturbing your ... well, I don’t know what this is. But I come in search of the Mad Prophet.”

The man scratched his beard in response.

Just his beard. Not even his chin.

Then, he turned a page.

“Do you have an appointment?” he said, his tone disinterested.

“Yes.”

“Really? Because I’m certain I haven’t accepted any new appointments for a good year now.”

“Everybody has an appointment with me. I simply choose whether or not to accept them. Something I hoped you would already know.”

“A common misconception. There’s much I know, but little regarding how my own day will unfold. I can read the roads one must take or best avoid. But to do so for myself would be beyond lunacy. Greater sages than I have found themselves accidentally swan diving off a cliff while attempting to weave their own path.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Is that not your calling? I was under the impression you were the Mad Prophet.”

The man sighed, all the while making a show of slowly turning a page he hadn’t read.

“I am the Mad Prophet. But I’m not actually mad.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a trade name. Despite the rumours I admittedly helped to spread, I am not actually mad.”

“You are surrounded by cheese.”

“Because I’m an avid cheesemonger. Everybody is allowed a hobby. I assure you that my faculties are quite well intact. More so given the amount of patience required to craft such a wide spectrum of cheese. A truly mad man would consume the whey halfway through.”

A hummingbird again peeked out from his beard, offering a curious chirp before retreating back inside.

I didn’t need to say a word.

“I’m conditioning my beard,” he explained while not explaining at all.

“... With avian wildlife?”

“Excellent for volume control. The flittering unravels the natural coarseness of my hair. A clear beard is a clear mind. And I need one as serene as the deepest spring lake in order to politely repel those who continue to ignore my sign. I am not taking new appointments. If you wish for a reading regarding your marriage prospects, then please see the Crazed Seer. I’m told she’s marketing that as her specialty now. Three decades too late, of course.”

The man chuckled into his book, a look of quiet satisfaction upon his face.

All I could do was blink.

“Excuse me? You … You can offer insight into marriage prospects?”

The Mad Prophet spared a glance at me, his posture straightening by half a degree.

“Insight? … No, girl. Palm readers and bar room con artists offer insight. I discern the roads leading from your heart, studying and traversing them one after another until I find the one which leads to your destiny. For destiny, you see, is a sly creature and is often missed. I prevent that.”

Poof.

Suddenly, a parchment as long as my mother’s favoured gown when she wanted to trip as many nobles as possible appeared beside me. It fell to the ground, then rolled endlessly into the distance.

A moment later, it vanished with a sweep of a hand.

“That is why,” said the Mad Prophet, as he calmly turned another page. “I have a very long appointment list. And I do not do drop-in sessions.”

Clink.

The sound of a fistful of gold crowns slapped down on the table.

At once, the Mad Prophet’s eyes looked past the edges of his book.

Then, he slowly closed it to a cough.

“–Fortunately, my provolone has matured ahead of expectation and I find myself with a morsel of free time. Should you desire, I can spare a few moments out of generosity.”

I nodded at once.

All of a sudden, every thought of a missing dragon went from my head.

This … This was clearly far more important!!

“So you can determine the details of my future marriage partner?”

“I can indeed … and with 99.4% accuracy. A far better percentage than my competitors can boast, no matter how much gold they spend on inventing new slogans. It doesn’t take a prophet to know that only failure will greet their wild expenditure. But myself? … Word of mouth is all I require. For like all others before you, I will divine exactly when and where you shall meet your fated one.”

I could only gasp.

If … If this cheese hermit could determine my future in matters of romance, then that alone would make this entire expedition more than worthwhile!

“There is, of course, a few disclaimers,” said the man as he reached over to scoop up my coins. I cupped the gold at once. “99.4% is not 100%. I am also merely a guide. How you approach your destined love and any consequences to follow is entirely not to do with me. I accept no responsibility for any issues in causality that results in purposefully seeking out your prospective marriage partner. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

The man clapped his hands and smiled, the book he was reading tossed to the wayside.

“Wonderful. Then I shall decipher the twisting roads of romance which lie ahead of you. And judging by the way your hand is still covering the gold crowns, I shall receive payment afterwards. That is fine. My readings may be 99.4% accurate, but my customer satisfaction rate is 100%.”

A moment later … the Mad Prophet closed his eyes and exhaled a deep breath.

“Now be still,” he said, stretching out his palm. “I shall reach out to determine where you must wander in order to meet your destined match.”

“Thank you, but that’s not what I need.”

The man opened one eye, his brow raised in puzzlement.

“Excuse me?”

“Please tell me the roads I must take to avoid all threats of marriage.”

“Uh …”

I nodded fervently, my fists tightly clenched against my chest.

“I wish to avoid all routes to doom. It is no exaggeration to say that there is no greater threat to my quality of life than marriage. If possible, please write me a concise list of dates and times that any prospective candidates will find themselves within 500 metres of me so I can either barricade myself or have them waylaid.”

“You, um, came here to ask me how to avoid marriage?”

“No, I came here for matters related to a missing dragon. But that can wait. Please assist me in avoiding personal calamity and I shall ensure you are rewarded beyond your wildest prophecies.”

As was only appropriate, the man could only blink, stunned by my entirely vague offer of riches.

“... A dragon, you say?”

“Yes, a dragon.”

“Are you certain?”

“Unfortunately, I am. But it doesn’t matter. As I said, the dragon can wait. Now, about my–”

The man practically hopped out of his chair.

Suddenly, a tower of gouda came toppling down, sending several other cheese towers down with it.

“Well, why didn’t you say so!” he said, his demeanour changing at once. “As it so happens, I was just waiting for someone like you–in fact, I believe I know the very dragon you’re referring to!”

I let out a tiny groan.

Here I was, sensing the opportunity to finally see myself to safety, and I was met with enthusiasm regarding something entirely unnecessary instead!

“Yes, well, I’d be all too delighted to discuss this missing dragon debacle. But first, I’d like to see to my personal marriage reading. This is a matter of grave importance.”

The Mad Prophet nodded, barely listening as he swept towards his cottage.

“Of course. I will endeavour to provide every answer you desire. Rest assured, this meeting was fated in the stars. It’s not every day that matters of a missing dragon reaches my ears. Bad for business all around. When dragons go missing, so too does a hefty dose of magic. But I see that help has already arrived!”

To my dismay, he rattled the door to his home until it eventually buckled.

Creaking as it swung open, I was assailed by the odour of cheese so pungent that it was surely in its final stages before it became something that a hero would have to be called upon to slay.

“I can provide my most accurate readings in my study,” he said as he gestured inside. “My premium service, all charges waived, of course.”

I allowed my regret a moment to stew.

And then–I crept over to the cottage. I was already in Ouzelia, conversing with a mad man and surrounded by cheese. What could possibly be worse at this point?

“Hmm?”

The answer, as it turned out … was a hole.

Displaying the most avant-garde design I’d yet seen for a commoner’s dwelling, I came to a stop as my foot failed to find ground. I briefly stumbled before my years of training at the mercy of my ballet tutors and possibly Coppelia’s hand tugged me back.

There, in place of much of the doorway, was a hole where several floorboards had been removed. Leaning forwards, I spied what appeared to be a cellar. One filled to the brim with ageing cheese.

I turned my exasperation towards the man responsible for this breach in construction standards.

“Excuse me, but why is there a hole in your doorway? … What if I’d accidentally fallen in? I’d never wash the odour away! I must say, even for Ouzelia, this is an unacceptable health hazard!”

“Oh, right. My apologies, I got so used to the hole that I forgot to mention it.”

Despite his response, the Mad Prophet wasn’t actually looking at me.

Instead, he was whistling off to the side as his hand tugged on a piece of string. One dangling beside the door he was now stepping away from.

I pursed my lips.

And then–I slowly looked up.

Ah.

There it was at last.

An upright piano.

Excellent. I was becoming anxious.

And maple as well?

Hardly my first choice. But then again, neither was a Zelronto.

The underside wasn’t varnished. That was simply poor workmanship. Dire quality all around.

And that especially included the noise it made as it fell.