Description: CHAPTER ONE A very long time ago, when this morning''s mud puddles were still vast oceans, and dragons prowled their shores, there lived a little boy named Irwin who wanted to be a hero. If you think he sounds a little too ambitious, you should remember that the young people of olden times felt more pressure to succeed than we do. Not only was history being made all around them, but the sense of limitations that prevents you and me from, say, turning into frogs or sleeping for hundreds of years hadn''t been invented yet. Real people did those things, and even odder ones, every day, and the stories we call fairy tales were breaking news. So although children had more interesting career choices than we do, they also had a lot to live up to. The most popular celebrities of all were heroes, who walked the earth with mighty treads, slaying villains, righting wrongs, and setting hearts a-flutter. Every little boy hoped for a job in the field, but only the Heroic Academy could confer a license, and it was ruthlessly selective. Irwin planned to apply as soon as he was old enough-ten. Of course he knew the competition would be tough. All of his friends looked a lot more heroic than he did: lean and bronzed, with curly hair and satin capes that fluttered jauntily in the breeze. Irwin was simply too fond of candy to be lean, his skin wouldn''t tan nor his hair curl, and his cape must have been cut wrong, because it just hung limp, even in strong wind. His demeanor, too, was less impressive than everybody else''s. When his friends galloped across the hills, their jaws working with resolve and their steely eyes scanning the horizon, Irwin followed at a slower pace, chewing caramels. The one time he tried the most fashionable move of the day-leaping onto a rearing steed and galloping into the sunset-he wound up facedown in a blackberry bush. But he wasn''t as troubled by these shortcomings as everybody else seemed to be, and he didn''t imagine that they would make any difference to the Academy. As long as his heart was pure, how could it matter that he sometimes slipped out of his saddle or had sugar on his chin? None of the other boys could resist his silly sense of humor, or his generosity in sharing the candy his parents made in their shop. He''d even won over the most dashing boy in the entire kingdom, Seymour. Some of the others wondered jealously why Seymour didn''t pick a best friend more like himself, a boy who would constantly try to outdo him and keep him on the top of his game. The truth was that although Seymour seemed to accomplish everything effortlessly, it took all of his strength to be so magnificent, and Irwin was the only person easygoing enough to help him forget the burden of his greatness. Seymour was so impressive that the Academy had already offered him a spot in the next freshman class. So naturally, as his friends'' auditions approached, Seymour was much in demand as a strategic consultant. Irwin didn''t ask him for advice, but Seymour couldn''t bear the idea of going to school without his friend and stayed up all night developing an application routine for him anyway. He wrote it up on a parchment scroll and presented it proudly the next day as they ate caramels together in the shop. "It''s been a challenge because you''re deficient in so many basics," he said, "but I think I''ve finally done it. For example-the opening gambit. It''s usually best to gallop in on a charger, but you look like so much like a sack of potatoes in the saddle that it would be counterproductive, so instead you''ll stride in on foot, ringingly claiming to be greater than all the committee members put together." Irwin handed the scroll back to him and laughed. "You could say that, but it would sound ridiculous coming from me. I''m just going to open with a few jokes and then talk a little bit about the man who inspired me to be a hero." Seymour groaned and clapped his hand to his forehead. "Not your favorite speech about Mortimer and true heroism?" Irwin nodded. "Of course." Mortimer, the greatest hero of the era, had single-handedly beaten back the goblin hordes into the wastelands and the dragons into their mountain caves. But the real reason Irwin idolized him was that he avoided attention. Other champions made public appearances for extra income, or showed off at heroic rallies, but Mortimer always refused such invitations, implying that until evil had been beaten from the face of the earth, he couldn''t spare the time. He seldom even waited around to be thanked. "Mortimer gives me hope that a person doesn''t have to be a showoff to accomplish great things," added Irwin. "He''s the one hero I''ve ever heard of who''s not in it for the glory." Seymour sighed. They''d had this argument before. "You can''t be sure of that. His elusiveness doesn''t hurt his business, after all. In fact, it''s a clever strategy. When he finally makes an appearance, people will pay through the nose to see him. But in my opinion it''s a cold and calculating way to go through life. Fans want to admire their heroes. I''ll always be available to mine." Irwin sometimes thought that Seymour was a little too interested in being admired, and that he was letting his own personality color his view of Mortimer. "Have you ever considered that Mortimer just might not make a very good first impression? I''m sure that has something to do with why he''s never rescued a princess. They''re notoriously hard to please, and they probably make Mortimer feel awkward and shy." Mortimer''s perpetual bachelorhood was one of the most enticing mysteries about him. His fans didn''t look forward to the day his exploits got bogged down in lovey-dovey stuff and wedding arrangements, the way every other hero''s did, but they couldn''t help wondering why they never had. Rescuing a princess usually led to marrying her, which meant retiring from active duty, and some people figured that Mortimer was too committed to his work to settle down. Still, it seemed odd that he''d never been tempted. Seymour, naturally, believed that no princess had ever been good enough for him, and that he was holding out for a real showstopper. "But, Irwin, let''s just say for the sake of argument that you''re right," he said after they''d debated for a while. "Mortimer''s got a solid reputation in the field, so he can act however he wants. You''re just a kid, and you still need to impress the committee. With my routine, specifically tailored to mask your flaws-" "Thanks, Seymour," said Irwin, "but I really want to do it my way. Those professors are experts at detecting heroic qualities, and if I have them, they''ll know it whether I try to show them off or not. And if not, it''s better to find out now. I can always make caramel for a living, after all." Seymour looked horrified at the suggestion, and Irwin wasn''t nearly as lighthearted about it as he sounded, either, but he didn''t really think it would happen. Among the hundreds of news stories about people who transformed themselves dramatically in the pursuit of their dreams, there was always one or two in which some unprepossessing person was rewarded for being himself. CHAPTER TWO li0A few days later Irwin stood facing the admissions committee of retired heroes, enormous, craggy men with flinty expressions. In the center sat the headmaster, Quentin the Hidebound, who was rumored to have been invincible in his youth, and who still looked as though he''d put up a good fight. "Hi!" Irwin said, with a little wave. "I''m Irwin, and I''m very grateful for the opportu-" "We know who you are," interrupted Quentin, studying Irwin''s application form. "Let''s see..." Pausing, he flipped the page over. "You didn''t list any exploits in section B as instructed." He looked up sharply. "A rebel, eh?" He jotted a note. "Very good. Just boast to us a bit now." "Er...." said Irwin. "Well, you see, I haven''t actually performed any exploits yet." "Of course you haven''t!" boomed Quentin. "You''re only ten! The point is to see how creative you are in inventing them. The whole first year at the Academy is devoted to boasting." Irwin frowned. "But how can the students have anything to boast about in the first year?" Quentin shrugged. "Oh, they don''t. That''s why a vivid imagination is a prerequisite. Studies have shown that it''s best to teach the mannerisms-the tone, inflection, gestures-of braggadocio early. Wait too long and modesty can set in. Even a working hero finds it necessary to exaggerate once in a while, so it helps to get the knack of it when you''re young." He checked the hourglass impatiently. "Go ahead, make something up. Borrow a feat from your favorite hero if you must." Irwin tried to picture himself, only ten years old, beating back goblin hordes. The idea made him smile. Quentin cleared his throat. "Perhaps a tankard of strong ale would steady your nerves?" "I''m sorry," Irwin said. "It''s just that I prepared some-" Quentin cued a trumpet player Irwin hadn''t noticed before, who let out a deafening blast. "Let''s move on to your routine, then." Irwin jumped. "Er," he began. He decided it would be best to skip the jokes and move straight into his main points. "Well, in my view, a true hero . . . " "Stop the music!" interrupted Quentin. "All right, son, you''re trying my patience. Are you ready to do your routine yet, or do you have something else to say?" "But saying things is my routine. I prepared a brief monologue on the nature of true heroism." Quentin stared at him. "The whole point of the audition is to see

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