Once in a distant village, perhaps several miles from here, was a small family with a small tale to tell. They lived small lives - honest, middling-quality lives of small distances - ten steps to the garden, forty steps to the well, ninety steps to the neighbor's house to stop and have a chat. The wife was Mabel Maylie - better known as Maybe - and the husband was Hogarth Maylie - better known as Garlic. Garlic and Maybe had a son named Robert - by Robbie he was known - and they shared every joy in the world with him. They took him ten steps to the garden, to work among the plants. They took him forty steps to the well, to fetch a sweet cold drink. They even took him ninety steps to the neighbor, to stop and have a good long chat. Sometimes the neighbors might have heard a rumor about something going on two hundred steps away or more (from them even) but largely the conversation was local.
When Robbie grew up, there was a long, cold season. Maybe and Garlic were no longer young, and in the deep cold, they couldn't manage to go out to the garden - ten steps there and back for Robbie was no trouble. They couldn't manage to go to the well - forty was well and fine. But even Robbie didn't every day undertake to go ninety steps in the whipping nipping windy blizzard to stop and have a chat with the neighbors.
In time, the color returned to the cheeks of the earth, and Robbie went all ninety steps to the neighbors' house. By the thirtieth step, he was looking at the house, and noticed that there was no smoke from their chimney. The sixtieth, no sound. When he knocked on the door he found it quite open, and the inside all mixed about, like the dollhouse of an unruly child. He came home then, told his parents, and went about his work.
The next day, he had an idea - he would go to the neighbors' neighbors. A hundred and eighty steps from home, he found himself at another empty house. This went on and he found that the Maylies were quite alone.
Garlic and Maybe didn't care much for this news. Garlic had been a fighter once, and knew a thing or two. He taught this quantity of things to Robbie, who found it exciting. They worked through the summer, and were able to cobble together a set of armor for Robbie, who was already as big as he was going to be, and a big handsome sword, which he learned to use. When the air was as crisp and delicious as an apple, Robbie went out hunting.
He walked up past dozens of houses, derelict, now yawning from every side. He saw the mighty mountain and the perilous path, and he came home. Garlic patted him on the back and said "Maybe next time."
The next day, the air was yet more crisp and delicious, and he went out again, past the houses, and up the broad shoulder of the mighty mountain. He found himself at a brief bridge of the perilous path above a prickly precipice, and came home. Maybe patted him on the back and said "Garlic next time."
The next day, the air was wild and free, and he went out again, past the houses, up the shoulder of the mountain, across the brief bridge, and found himself in front of a crooked castle, bewildered as he. He took a deep bracing breath, and continued onward, with his sword to lead the way. He clambered through collapsing corridors, marveled through vaulted halls, and slunk through abandoned chambers. Here, where windows remained, there was a gentle blanket of dust, and windows without, a moaning breeze. He spiraled up a staircase, finally reaching a precarious peak. By then, it was well and dark, but he was loath to turn around now, so he took the garlic from his bag and had a good chew as his eyes adjusted.
It was the highest room, and the coldest, with no windows but shaded slits letting in only whispers of wind and splinters of moonlight. He saw a table with but one once-proud chair, and a big wooden box. Just as he was going to leave, having no business with a box, there was a low creak and the grinding of rusty metal as the hinges of the box were exercised. A strange, slight man - a human, to Robbie's eye - lifted himself from the box and fixed his sight on Robbie, who quickly bowed and sensed it was his turn to speak.
"Pardon me," he said, "I didn't mean to wake you - I just didn't think anyone was home. You see, all of my neighbors have gone away."
"No need," rasped the man, retrieving a sword from his box, "For it is I that should beg your pardon."
And so it was that Robbie saw that the man was not indeed a human, as the shy splinter of moonlight stepped from tooth to sharpened tooth. So it also was, that he sensed the man had little interest in a good long chat - and indeed was very little like the neighbors at the house now so many steps away. And, finally, so it was that he noted the many rings on the man's spindly fingers, one of which he recognized as a band he had given to the neighbor's daughter one short year ago.
Battle between experts might be a dance of many steps, but Robbie was no expert, so he had no time for these. A dozen times he leapt across the room, and dozen times the slight man slunk around his sword. On the thirteenth time, the man disarmed him, and his sword flashed through the air like a salmon, and the man toppled him, and leapt upon his chest, forcing the air from his body. A sour wind, rank with garlic, washed over the strange man, and he instantly fell back, writhing and coughing. Young Robbie seized the once-proud chair by the leg, and as he made to strike, the leg tore away from rot, leaving a stout stake, which he buried into the heart of the slight man, who whooped once and lay still by his side.
Robbie brought himself to his feet, relieved the man of the stolen ring, placed him in his box, retrieved his own sword, slung it over his shoulder, spiraled down the stairs, slunk, marveled, and clambered through the castle's chambers, halls, and corridors, crossed the bridge, marched down the mountain, passed the neighboring houses until finally he came to the Maylie house, at which point they all had dinner.