It was another hot, sticky afternoon in Westborough. The air hung thick with pollen. The superweeds rustled in every crack of pavement. On the hill above them, the factory puffed smoke into the sky like it was trying to choke out the sun. The massive, belching fertilizer plant loomed over the town like a metal giant, its smokestacks painting the clouds brown and sour.

  The jagged, ugly metal exterior was a stark contrast to the once-lovely buildings of Westborough, now stained and sagging. The toxic particles rose into the air and mixed with the clouds, creating superfood for plants. This phenomenon was a big problem—Westborough was being overrun with... superweeds.

  Monstrous eyesores, some grew to five feet in a matter of days. The weed brigade started cutting in the morning and didn’t stop until night. Grabgrass and ragweed were the most common. They cut and tugged anyone close enough. Ragweed pollen filled the air at the slightest touch. They protruded from every crack and cranny, destroying roads and buildings. Creeping ivy would grow back as fast as the weed brigade could cut.

  Westborough had once won awards for Best Town in Great Britain for years—well-manicured shrubs, friendly people, beautiful countryside vistas, and sweet-smelling flowers all around. It was dead last now.

  After school, the five young friends were walking down High Street. Petunia, the frilly-shirt swashbuckler, was slicing weed stalks clean through. “Whoosh” went the wooden sword as it swayed back and forth.

  “Back, foulest ragweeds! Back, I say! Huzzah!” Petunia exclaimed with bravado; a puff of pollen filled the air. She sheathed her wooden sword in her leather belt with style and looked upwards. The sun baked them high up in the cloudless sky.

  “Ugh. So muggy and hot today. The ragweed pollen is thick—it’s making me sneeze,” said Petunia. She aired out her soaked white pirate shirt.

  “Me goo! I can't get the phlegm out of my gose!” complained the blonde-haired Lucille. She snorted and spat in the dirt. Her damp socks were slipping down this sticky morning.

  Eustace sniffled into his handkerchief. “Petunia’s costume is not lore-friendly! Achoo! Pistols haven’t even been invented yet! There are no swashbuckling pirates in the land of North Hamptonwichshireton. This is a swords-and-magic-type realm. And why is Petunia here, anyways?”

  The handsome, brown-haired athlete sniffled. “Well, invent them then. I mean, they exist now, don’t they? Petunia’s my bit o’ jam, and she’s babysitting Lucille while her parents are at the factory. They’re working a double shift,” answered Percival.

  Lucille defended herself quickly. “I’m not a baby. I'm the same age as Eustace. I didn’t ask to join your silly make-believe adventure—I had to come along.” She hocked a loogie in the dirt, most unladylike.

  Petunia argued back, “What sort of name is Hamptonwichshireton? Silly name. Seems like you just pulled out a map of Great Britain and mashed some names together. You’re becoming a lazy lore master. Why not Sparkling Meadows? And I want to be a pirate with guns, so quit bovering me abou’ it.”

  “And why are you both a wizard and a thief? Seems too powerful to me. Like cheating! Don’t wizards have spells for opening doors?” asked Percival. His nose was running with goop. He made a good point.

  “Because I can. It’s lore-friendly—according to my Castles and Wyrms book. And Sparkling Meadows? Absolutely not. It takes time to invent pistols—I’ll think of something. But I do so under duress,” complained Eustace. He was a stickler for the rulebook. Everything had to be logical and orderly to him. Little did they know, another world much stranger than their own listened and waited.

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  “I’m always hungry. Wish our make-believe feasts had real food. How’m I supposed to be a mighty barbarian when I’m starvin’ all the time? Cottage pies. Sausages. Mmmm,” complained Digby, salivating.

  “How about nobody gets a scrape or cut I have to put a bandage on.” said Lucille

  The sun beat down with ruthless cheer as the gang rounded the corner onto Wash Street. A crooked tin sign swung overhead: Jarbin’s General Store – Est. 1913. Petunia wiped her brow with her sleeve.

  “I’m parched,” she groaned. “Feels like my lungs are full of boiling jam.”

  “You’re in luck,” said Eustace, puffing up with importance. “I brought money. And Mother said I could buy something refreshing, so... I’m treating us to soda.”

  They all turned to him.

  “Must be nice being rich,” said everyone.

  “Well Mommy does take care of me.” said Eustace.

  “Really?” Digby blinked. “Like real soda? With fizz and flavor and questionable dyes?”

  “Real enough,” Eustace said, straightening his robe like a nobleman. “One per person. No trading. No swindling.”

  Inside, the store was cool and comforting. The old man behind the counter didn’t even glance up as Eustace plunked down a fistful of coins. Soon, they stood outside sipping from glass bottles—orange fizz, bubbleberry burst, and sour apple thunder.

  Digby sniffed his. “It’s glowing.”

  “Drink it anyway,” said Petunia, already halfway through hers.

  Lucille’s sour apple made her pucker like a dried fig, but she said, “It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  They sat on the curb, quiet for a moment, enjoying the rare treat.

  Then Percival stood and raised his soda like a goblet. “Alright, brave heroes. We have a quest. As your noble captain, I say our next stop is Whitmore’s Book Emporium. The map says it holds arcane knowledge, rare scrolls, and the sacred Guide of Destiny.”

  “Your map’s a ketchup-stained napkin,” muttered Eustace.

  “Shhh. It’s enchanted.”

  Petunia clinked her bottle against his. “To the Whitmores, then. May they have books, secrets, and not be closed like every other shop.”

  “Hope they’ve got crisps,” said Digby, draining the last of his soda in one massive gulp. “All that sword fighting makes a bloke hungry.”

  “Thanks for the soda for me and my sis. You're kinda alright sometimes.” said Petunia, hitting Eustace on the arm.

  “Ouch. you're welcome.’ he rubbed his arm.

  They stood, refreshed, sticky, and mildly buzzing from sugar—and headed off toward their fateful stop.

  After walking for several minutes, Percival pointed his trusty broomstick at the massive, belching factory on the hill. “Ya see that castle there? It’s only going to get worse. That monstrosity is where the evil Baron Malsham and his henchmen reside. We must storm the castle and free the town from his iron grip! Sedition! Onward to the bookstore!” Percival said playfully.

  For years now, the Malsham family fertilizer factory had ruined the lives of this once-quaint town. The smokestacks constantly billowed, irritating the eyes and burning the nostrils with foul odors. Looming over Westborough from the high hillside, sombre citizens would walk to the plant’s entrance in the dark early morning hours and not leave until night. “The factory must run,” they would say.

  “The pollen is getting regigulous. We've gotta do something!” said the ol’ Digby with snot coming out his nose.

  Percival sighed. “Digby, we have much worse things to worry abou’ than food right now. We’ve got seven days left before school lets out, and then we’re in big trouble. So concentrate on that, not sausages.”

  Digby sliced a group of weeds with his stick. “I know, I know. I haven’t forgotten,” he mumbled.