Auntie's Fairly Flailing Tales #2--"The Lyin' King"

[AuntShecky]

Author's Note:
Not that the first FF tale was wildly popular demanding another go-around,from decades ago I keep remembering Sister Jeanne-Pierre's trenchant warning: "No 'one' without a 'two'!" Hence appears the second flailing tale.

This tale itself has a "1" as in Part 1, subsequent "chapters" to follow, provided the present PC, "Pong 2.1," cooperates and the author can access it.

The author has a general disdain for footnotes. Believing that a work should contain all the necessary information within the text itself, I think they're extraneous in most works of literature (not that this nonsense falls under that prestigious umbrella.) I really dislike footnotes in poetry-- in a poem that is complete, footnotes are as redundant as voice-over narration on film, where a stentorian voice describes exactly what you're seeing on screen.

Despite all that, the various chapters of "The Lyin' King" will have footnotes,merely because I want to channel my inner Cliff Clavin and Dr. Sheldon Cooper, as well as a general reluctance not to pass up an opportunity for another joke, even a bad one! Which, more often than not, is the case.


Auntie’s Fairly Flailing Tales #2: “The Lyin’ King”

I.

Scritch-scritch-scritch. The sound of the stiff brush pushing back and forth against the chopping block was intermittently counterpointed by a less-rhythmical plunk-and-slosh during the brief intervals when the scullery maid paused to dip the rough implement into the pail of soapy water on the floor. Each time her brush made the ascent from the bucket back to the wooden square, the girl would be hit with an inescapable whiff of the cleaning solution, liberally laced with a potent portion of lye. The chemical stench stopped short of completely overwhelming her. It nonetheless opened the floodgates of her tear ducts and compelled her turned-up nose to twitch uncontrollably from side to side, as she fought to repress the irresistible approach of an imminent sneeze –- which ultimately won the battle with a formidable explosion reverberating off the stone walls of the castle’s kitchen.

Instantaneously there appeared in front of her face a human hand proffering a handkerchief, woven from a material no one would ever mistake for silk-- though not overly coarse, yet good enough to do the job. Another hand, presumably the hanky-provider’s partner, thwarted the girl’s attempt to turn around by covering her eyes.

“Guess who?” sang a falsetto voice.

“Prince Charming?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Merlin the Magnificent?”

“Guess again.”

“Oh, honestly! I’ve got no time for games!” With her own wet hands, the maid reached up to pull away the makeshift blindfold. She swivelled herself around before anyone in Christendom could stop her. “Oh, it’s you, again.”

The young man behind her bent down with a mocking bow. “It’s your one and only Tom! At your service, Dear Lady.”

The girl, who could give as well as she could take, feigned an attack with her scrubbing brush. “I can see that. What brings you to our earthly paradise this fine day?”

The “fine” was mere assumption, since she had eye-witnessed scarce daylight for the better part of a quadrennium. It had been that long since she’d been dragged from her mother’s loving arms into the involuntary servitude of the Royal Kitchen, where her shift began long before the sun came up and ended a full two hours after it went down. Her lot in life was not dissimilar to that of an oppressed coal miner, though she wasn’t one to complain. There were times, however, when a wistful reverie would surround her, inspiring nostalgic memories of her relatively happy youth, when her kinfolk had thought enough of her to call her by her Christian name rather than “You there, wench!” She’d been summoned by that demeaning epithet so often that the others who’d been similarly pressed into kitchen service-- especially those whose eardrums had been permanently damaged by the unrelenting din of clanging pots and pans-- heard “wench” as a clipped form of the name which they assumed to be “Gretchen.” Of course, she was smart enough not to disabuse anyone of this misinformation, stemming from a prudent sense of self-preservation, which constantly admonished her to avoid a beating at all costs. Hence, no one in the castle knew her real name.

Not even Tom knew the truth, as he leaned against the damp block with his fist on his chin, his eyes staring moonily at the comely maid, and his mind elsewhere. “Gretchen” repeated her question, even though she already knew the answer. Her admirer was –for lack of a better term – a gofer, or go-between the decidedly demented daily activities of the Palace and the comparatively saner outside world. In modern parlance, Tom was “in charge” (albeit with little or no authority) of Shipping and Receiving. The latter, with its endless onslaught of Royal Gifts --sent with the compliments of numerous prosperous merchants of the kingdom, all motivated by a obsession of currying the favor of the Monarch, or at the very least as an informal insurance policy of protection against his notoriously vengeful style of rule--was Tom’s only job. The equation was an unbalanced one, a bottom-heavy seesaw, with no reciprocating swing. The first part of the department existed in name only, for the king was not only a tyrant, but also the world’s worst skinflint, whose legendary lack of generosity made it clear that the only things ever sent out of the palace were warrants.

Tom was good at surviving by his wits, cosseting himself in the background, for all appearances keeping everything on the level while tossing in the occasional monkey wrench on the q.t. For his role of distributing the uninterrupted flow of said largess, Tom was expected to keep up with the parade of pricey goods, staying on his toes, and hopping to it. He was, therefore, taking an enormous chance in slacking off for a moment in order to visit his sweetheart, although the risk of being discovered in such dalliance would have made him a likely candidate for a stint in the dungeon, where he’d be confined until such time another shipment would arrive. Tough beans, Tom thought– she’s worth it.

Although the job had its perks– - a slightly larcenous, unintended lagniappe off the top of a casket of jewels or a strawberry tart pilfered off a crowded tray, amounting to trifles never to be missed– - such was not the curriculum vitae that Tom had mapped out for himself. It had been his lifelong dream to follow in the clown-shoe-sized footsteps of his father and grandfather –and several generations before them. What he really wanted to be was a jester. That hope died aborning, two decades previously, when young Tom had just begun to try out his juvenile “Knock Knock” jokes, but the tradition, alas, became irrevocably lost the night his sharp-tongued father’s one-liner allegedly “crossed the line,” resulting in the elder’s banishment to a far-off land where he’d been forced to live as a hermit, his best material wasted on the wind, his only audience a chorus of blasé crickets.

At the time of his father’s misfortune, Tom’s tender age had saved him from similar punishment, thus avoiding an inchoate public relations nightmare for the Crown. The Court Advisory Panel had ruled against throwing the boy into the Royal Orphanage where, it was feared, he’d likely become an undesirable influence upon the younger inmates. Plan B was to place the child under the dubious “care” and tutelage of the Royal Gatekeeper, who immediately enlisted Tom as Second Assistant to the Drawbridge Opener, the physical act of pulling the chains and ropes less a chore than an opportunity for pranks: teasing-- if not terrifying-- unsuspecting visitors to the castle by pretending to lower or raise the walkway a bit too soon or too late. Even this subversive behavior brought about little in the way of punishment, again because of his youth. Yet by the time he grew into manhood, the years of repetitively strenuous activity had served to enhance Tom’s upper body strength and flexibility, leaving him with arms as mighty as trebuchets, hurling him smack into his current job, designed for a body built to haul heavy packages, crates, and cartons. Tom would much rather be shipping clever ripostes instead of receiving unsolicited grief, such as promised by the Royal Chef, shooting a menacing look in his direction.


Tom caught the threatening glare as a signal to get on with the day’s delivery for the Royal Kitchen, where all manner of filthy vermin would be allowed to run free before Tom could justify his presence there without a good reason. “Not one but two presents for you today
Cookie! Here’s the first –“ With his burly arms he reached down and slammed a large crate on a long table. “From the sounds and the aroma I’d say the contents consist of Guinea Hens, quantity two dozen. But wait – there’s more! “ Indeed there was a second crate, twice as heavy and dripping a vile liquid. “This one’s silent,” Tom said, “but it stinks out loud!”

With that he slashed open the container and dumped the lot–a brackish, blackish mess of squirming coils on the bare table, the sight of which made the girl shriek. “Snakes!”

“No, snacks! “ Tom corrected. “Also known as eels. They’re what’s for dinner!”

The Chef shot another dirty look in Tom’s direction. “I don’t know what’s worse, your impudence or your ignorance. I’ll have you know that this is a delicacy, a rare and exotic dish worthy of His Majesty’s discriminating palate.”

“Slipperies for the Slippery,” Tom whispered, poking one of “Gretchen’s” ribs above a shapely hip.

“The world’s craftiest fishermen caught these in the pristine waters off the Coast of Gentletralia–“

“Poached, he means,” Tom said.

“What?” shouted the Chef, raising a treacherous knife high in the air.

“I said ‘They must be quite delectable poached in a lovely garlic and butter sauce.’ “

“Before I attack these puppies, I’ll skin you alive, you traitorous knave!” threatened the chef who literally had his hands full, the knife in one hand while the other frantically attempted to unravel the slimy mesh of elongated fish. Imagining himself to be Hercules v. the Hydra entangled in the Gordian Knot, he considered the piscine duel a test of his manhood until frustration conquered, resulting in a frantic call to the sous chef for aid. The second in culinary command, however, had been otherwise engaged at the pastry table, covered with slightly more flour than that which coated his arms. With a degree of difficulty equal to his superior’s task, the chef’s assistant’s current task involved lifting up a bottom crust to place it in a pie pan the size of a waterwheel. Meanwhile the crate of fowl chirped, the chef cursed, the eels squirmed, and Tom resumed pitching woo.

From out of nowhere he produced a little basket festooned with ribbons and tiny flowers, filled with fragrant contents. “Sweets for the Sweet,” Tom cooed.

“Raspberries!”

“ Would that they were rubies.” *

“Nay,” the lady protested, “they’re beautiful,” reciprocating with a peck of gratitude on Tom’s forehead,glistening with diaphoresis.

“Alas, you deserve so much more. Not just the berries– I mean you should have some better prospect--a nobleman, maybe-- pressing his suit.”


“Your clothes are fine, Tom, not wrinkled at all. Besides, you are the kindest, most considerate swain who ever graced the kingdom of Cappoccia. Just between you and me and the [insert your choice of ananchronistic exterior lighting device here], Tom– I’ve always felt you were destined for bigger and better things–“

He affected a laugh, pretending to scoff. “Yeah, right. Unfortunately my aspirations greatly exceed mine abilities.”

“Oh, no, Tom –you were meant for greatness, not for the likes of me. You should pick a better leman.** I don’t have to remind you that I’m nothing but a common- - commoner, only fit to scrape offal off plates and scrub crockery. My goodness, I can’t even read or write. These days a woman’s future is as bleak as a dungeon.”

“Not you, dear lady. Any day now a dashing Prince will come riding in on his mighty steed and sweep you off your feet–“

“I’m the one stuck sweeping, Tom. Besides, princes only go for gals with tiny feet.” Instantly “Gretchen” regretted her last statement, but to his credit, Tom knew enough not to steal a glance at her slightly-above-average-length dogs.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this, slaving your life away for Bluebeard over there, merely to please the discriminating palate of His Royal Pain in the Posterior upstairs? That blowhard prevaricator, that syphilitic tyrant! Look at your hands, so rough and red– they should be soft and delicate like the rest of you. Let’s run away, my Love– let’s leave this horrible place forever!”

Swiftly “Gretchen” put her index finger up to her lips and gently placed it on Tom’s. “Shh!” She jerked a thumb in the chef’s direction. “Big ears,” she whispered.

The chef, however, paid no heed to Tom’s subversive escape plans, for he had, to be sure, other fish to fry. The erstwhile knife had been replaced with an enormous mallet. From a row of studs held between his teeth, he attempted to take a tack, one by one, and nail each end of an uncooperative eel to the table. With his mouth full, he could not efficaciously swear; hence he substituted a series of passionate grunts, which gradually increased in decibel level, all the while interloped by the chef’s assistant’s pleas for advice– “Hey, Boss, do you want I should roast ‘em first or does I just plop ‘em in as is? And if so, do you want some kinda screen to pre-teck the top crust or what?” Meanwhile the screeching emanating from the crate of fowl sounded as if had originated from another benighted kingdom, down below.

Despite the din, Tom managed to make his whispered request heard, as he stood behind “Gretchen” with his manly arms around her slim waist while he snuggled her neck. “Tonight? The usual place?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Tom. And I’ll try to stay awake this time,” hastening to add– “Oh! I mean, it’s just that I’m exhausted all the time, and –-“

“I know, Sweetheart, I –-“

“Hey! “ The chef’s sudden shout scattered the remaining tacks all over the stone floor. “Stop manhandling the help! Your work is done here. Now get out!”

“I got to go, Honey. Not because he says so. “ Tom showed her a manila envelope. “Got to bring this upstairs.”

“Lucky you,” she said.

Another quick forehead buss, and with that, our plucky hero took his reluctant leave.


Notes for Part One

*Rubies.
Allusion to an endearing show biz anecdote involving playwright Charles (“The Front Page”) MacArthur and Helen Hayes, the “First Lady of the American Theatre ,” who would one day be his wife. As the story goes, upon first meeting Helen at a cocktail party, Charles deposited a bunch of peanuts in her hand and then reportedly said, “I wish they were emeralds.”


**leman
Not a typo for “lemon,” the slang term for a less than desirable item, but as the archaic term for a lover or sweetheart.


TO BE CONTINUED


Fairly Flailing Tale #1-- "Jack, The Giant's Life Coach" (http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?p=1150615#post1150615)

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear Aunty
Loved the wordmanship, humour and turn of phrase, but did pause a bit at "Between you, me and the lamppost," in a medieval context! You invariably put sufficient meat on the bone in your writing and this was especially the case with the "Hells Kitchen" section. Look forward to reading more.

Best regards
M.
(P.S. I must confess to being a fan of footnotes. Do you think it some kind of literary deviation in my makeup?)

[AuntShecky]

Dear Aunty
Loved the wordmanship, humour and turn of phrase, but did pause a bit at "Between you, me and the lamppost," in a medieval context! You invariably put sufficient meat on the bone in your writing and this was especially the case with the "Hells Kitchen" section. Look forward to reading more.

Best regards
M.
(P.S. I must confess to being a fan of footnotes. Do you think it some kind of literary deviation in my makeup?)

Thanks for your comment, M. There's a prominent lampost in Narnia, n'cest- ce pas? Not sure this really has a medieval setting--could be past, could be future--maybe it's in the parallel universe time and place as the tv version ofGame of Thrones, whose geographic setting, incidentally, vaguely looks like England affected by climate change, too cold in the north, tropical in the south where the blond dragon queen lives. But unlike Game of Thrones, this one's strictly meant for laughs.

Another chapter will follow, whenever.

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie,

Yes, I fanally got a round tuit, which enabled me to sample this offering. Have you been reading Titus Groan by any chance? a couple of things, you seem to have effected some minor edits and neglected to remove the original word: "...since she had seen witnessed scarce daylight..." and "...leaned against on the damp block..."

I'd also take issue with your use of "lagniappe" in context. Although employed for ironic/humorous effect it doesn't quite work. A lagniappe is a trifle given in excess of what is required. Tom is skimming off the top. Were he described as skimming off the top of lagniappes, it would be more appropriate. I'm afraid I don't like "diaphorectic" when applied to the unfortunate young man's forehead either. diaphoretic doesn't mean sweaty, it means "sweat inducing." Does his forehead make "Gretchen" sweat?

I'm inclined to agree with Man about the lampost too. Personally I feel that it would have been funnier to have paraphrased "between you, me and the lamp post" with a more medieval equivalent, replacing lamp post with 'torch post' or 'wall sconse'.

Lastly, there is a problem in your dialogue exchange between Tom and his girlfriend. it's almost as if you forgot who was speaking:, Tom, 'Gretchen' or the narrator.

"Alas you deserve so much more. Not just the berries - I mean you should have a better prospect of presing his suit."

I liked the joke about pressing his suit though. There are some lovely moments in the tale, I think my particular favourite is the description of the cook nailing eels to the table - lol.

A good read, Auntie, and I look forward to more.

Live and be well - H

[Steven Hunley]

Well, you know how it is. Some people think they have a sense of humor when in fact they don't. You however, are not a bird of that plumage.

This was fun and funny and at the same time (as many of your pieces) gave me a lesson in vocabulary. To learn something and be entertained is always a good thing. Always a pleasure. Oh, and like Man, I enjoy footnotes too!

[AuntShecky]

Gracias, Steven, and Hawk thanks for the suggested edits, now sorted. Incidentally, the third person possessive pronoun is correct in its context, but I tried to clarify with this recent edit. And incidentally, I first learned the word "diaphoretic" from tv-- not from medical shows but from Adam-12 when the cops would radio in their reports of a crime victim's physical condition-- "diaphoretic." I used it as an adjective form of diaphoresis.

Part 2 will arrive some day this week, a consummation devoutly to be wished, as least on this writer's part!

[MANICHAEAN]

Steve
We most probably have the same taste in women as well; exotic and slightly sassy.

Aunty
Apologies. I will go and wash my mouth out.

Take care
M.

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King – - Part Two

That guard posted near the king’s vestibule was no prince. The sharpness of his vinegar puss was exceeded only by that of the sword held crosswise across his torso, as if he were protecting his own chest along with warning Tom not to take another step. Instantly the young delivery guy caught the clue-- no dummy, he. Furiously, he waved the manila envelope above his head and stated his business. “For the King.”

Without moving his sword a fraction of an inch, the guard stuck out an open palm, whereupon Tom clutched the envelope tightly and thrust it behind his back so swiftly that a swishing sound bounced off the walls. “My instruction was to place it personally and directly into the King’s own hands.”

The guard scrunched his brow and shot Tom a skeptical look. “What are ya – - some kinda snippity process server?”

“Nope--just a snippity schlub who works here.”

The guard gave Tom another once over, stole a peek into the king’s drawing room, then to Tom a twice-over. “The king is preoccupied now. Come back later.”

“No can do. Even workin’ stiffs got schedules.”

The sentry’s shoulders rose with an inhalation and fell. “Wait here. Not in the doorway, you jackass! Stand there, behind the arras.”

“An heiress! I’ll ask her if she’s got a friend for you--”

The brute raised his sword high in the air. “Enough of your lip, you sniveling fool!” After carefully inserting his precious weapon back into the sheath hanging on his side, the thug pointed a bony finger dangerously close to Tom’s face. “Listen, you worm– -I don’t care if it takes until the last trumpet of Judgement Day - - You. Will. Wait.”

The satisfied smirk which had settled across the bully’s mug instantly faded when Tom didn’t snap at the bait. The threatening finger began to shake. “ If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stand stock-still and keep your impudent trap shut. You try any more funny stuff and I’ll kick your sorry arse all the way back down the stairs.”

“Talk about disgruntled work force!” Tom mused. “Everybody is as cranky as a spayed spaniel around here.”

The guard made a half- turn as if to leave, then suddenly lurched back , feigning an attack. When Tom naturally flinched, the guard exploded with mean-spirited laughter before reprising his dirty look. “Don’t forget – - I’m watching you!”

It was, Tom reckoned, within the realm of possibilities that the guard had some kind of magic apparatus enabling him to engage in long-distance spying, but inexplicably, his tormentor had left -- was it palace Break Time already?– or merely an unignorable need to answer the call of nature? In any event, Tom wasn’t taking any chances. He would, he supposed, obey the letter, if not the spirit, of the command. The jaunty little tune, partially sung, partially whistled through his teeth, compelled him to accompany the ditty with a sprightly jig “See that birdie in the tree. Sweetzie deetzie dee dee dee dee dee.” The impromptu song-and-dance, however, aged rapidly, and gradually faded as he began to examine the hanging tapestry in front of his face more closely. “By you, by you, by. . . Hmmm.”


Longer than anyone could remember the woven tapestry had hung in this very spot, so much a permanent fixture than no one ever paid it much attention. The only exception to this oversight was the annual decree each spring for a palace-wide “deep cleaning” in which a lowly chambermaid – whose status around the castle nonetheless outranked that of “Gretchen” –- would with great physical difficulty haul the arras down to the courtyard, where she’d manage to hang it upon a clothesline, and then with the back of a coal shovel would beat the bejeezus out of each side of it, releasing previously pent-up dust-puffs to emerge like insects soaring up to the unsuspecting sky.

The decorative cloth came attached with a a rarely mentioned yet universally accepted back-story, which, like any legend, tended to whet-- but seldom to slake -- the average commoner’s thirst for occult lore. Unlike its more notorious counterpart, this particular tapestry did not carry a transferrable curse,* but in addition to illustrating the country’s past and present, it prophesied an array of future events.

At first Tom fingered the rich though dusty brocade hanging vertically like a window dressing, then with his characteristic cheekiness pulled out the panel horizontally to get a better look at the pictorial tableau. The first set of panels appeared to depict an ancient battle scene . On the far left, the first panel was populated with one-dimensional figures, colorful but flat and crudely-drawn. Only a few were mounted on steeds festooned with ribbons and banners, most embossed with the emblems of heraldry. Some were posed in the classical positions of archers, and a few others wielded axes and swords. All of the living warriors were vastly outnumbered by the fallen, besmeared and surrounded by blobs of red yarn or in many cases flat on their backs with an arrow protruding from their respective abdomens, as if they had been literally “tacked” to the ground.

Farther to the right the story-in-picture flashed forward to a later era; as far as Tom could tell, it looked like the actual time in which he lived. The woven figures were still colorful, but the hues were muted, and their physical structures fleshier, as if the panels were recreating real life. Indeed, if Tom didn’t know better, he thought he was looking at pictures he actually recognized, people he would see roaming the palace or on the streets in town. The largest figure on that stretch of panels obviously was intended to depict the current ruler, a representational homunculus (not much difference in actual size since the king was much shorter in stature than your average Cappoccian) but nevertheless the likeness was flattering. (The artisan at the loom had obviously enough of a sense of self-preservation to know enough not to show the King in any other kind of light.) The most prominent vignette on this section recapitulated the monarch’s dedication of the famous Cappoccian Dam, the fiduciary provenance of its existence having made that example of infrastructure more notorious than famous, for, if truth be told, the rank-and-file Cappoccian subjects, along with the extremely set-upon laborers who had erected the monstrosity, referred to it among themselves as “that damned dam.”

The terminal set of panels was tightly bunched against the far-right pillar of the doorway; the panels seemed almost glued together, and it took considerable effort, even from a sinewy swain such as Tom, to release them from their accordion-like tightness. But what a sight they held! The figures, still more or less realistically-rendered, had a whiff of the mysterious about them: there was a hint of abstraction as well as the impressionistic, both familiar and unfamiliar. This was all very strange to Tom, but he thought he could make out the town, where a dramatic scene was unfolding. Some of the folks had expressions of fear upon their faces, yet others were celebrating some unknown triumph. A graphic swatch of blue and white suggesting rushing water splashed in the background while in the foreground a figure of a man–no one Tom could immediately recognize– was being lifted into the air by the cheering crowd. What did it all mean? Tom shrugged. What in blazes did he know about art?


With a yawn, Tom decided that he had waited long enough. He decided to go back to his moldy quarters, take a power nap, and try to make the Royal Delivery later. But within the palace sanctum, he could hear voices. The conversation had the tone of secrecy, a discussion meant for noble ears only. If that wasn’t a royal invitation for a snippity schlub to eavesdrop, Tom didn’t know what was.




*The name of the historical tapestry is the same as the title of Tom’s ditty, albeit with a different spelling.



TO BE CONTINUED

[Steven Hunley]

Oh Auntie, the wordsmanship is impeccable and I sooo like the part about the ancient cursed tapestry! Can't wait for more. Oh, I get it, I get it! And I knew it before I went back to check.
It's the Bayonne tapestry. Think they'll sell it? I want it for my wall.

[Steven Hunley]

revised duplicate sorry!:rolleyes5:

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear Aunty

Back in camp, I reread the first section, interspersed as it was, by comments from "the Gang of Three " and then moved into part two. Now I've finished, have broken my mortal fast, and have poured a liberal measure of liquid fortification; not I hasten to add, because the exercise of reading your contribution requires it, but because I find that after the sober analysis of a piece of writing, it's imperative to let such thinking flow in a more unrestrained manner. Your indulgence thus will consequently be required if my ramblings become somewhat incoherent. Let me comment as follows:

1. The plot evolves and holds the readers interest. Good luck if you know where it's going and I look forward to the journey. I just push the boat out into unchartered waters, invariably never finish the tale, (having purged myself of whatever is in my head) and then ask "What does it all mean?" You are likely to be more organised than myself in this respect, having a better idea of what lies on the other side of the hill.

2.The circumstances of the characters in your story reminds me in an obscure way of scenes akin to "fagging" at English public schools or rebellious young girls being raised educationally by nuns, not that I'm conversant with either I might add. But the unfairness of fate and social hierarchy is well captured.

3. I'm becoming more attuned to your unique style of writing, which is certainly not orthodox. I've seen in your other pieces that there is a distinct juxtaposition of parlance ranging from:

(a) Period, in tune with the setting. ( wench, comely maid, swain, knave,and nay.)
(b) Modern. ( on the q.t, gofer, cookie, vinegar puss, your sorry arse, power nap.)
(c) What I can only describe as inter-war British. (his mighty steed, gals with tiny feet, plucky hero.)
(d) Reach for the dictionary. ( inchoate, diaphoresis, homunculus.)
(e) Dare I say New York speech? (Hey, Boss, do you want I should roast em first or does I just plop em in as is? Do you want some kinda screen to pre-teck the top crust or what? Even workin stiffs got schedules.)
(f) Ethnic. ( beat the bejeezus, snipperty schlub.)
(g) The irrepressible one liners that convey a sense of fun and that there is humour in even dire situations.

4. Conclusion. Any writer worth their salt has to create their own style, something personal and not based on the obtuse factors of market demand, coupled innocuously with the dummed down educational standards associated with illimitable swathes of mankind. Your style is new, drawn from numerous tributaries but I sense your frustration sometimes that it is not recognised. If I've judged wrong, ignore the comment. The only suggestion I might make is to review your own value judgement on the balance of variables outlined in 3 above. Its a heady mix.

5. Finally, large elements of your style have so much of one of my favourite authors, Raymond Chandler about it; the dialogue, the sardonic humour, the build up of descriptive background. You would be a natural in that kind of setting, so why not play to your strengths?

Warm regards
M.

[Hawkman]

What he said ^__^! ;) Notwithstanding, I'm enjoying the ride Auntie, so keep it coming :D

Looking forward to more. 1/3 of the Prial - H

[MANICHAEAN]

Ah ha! The Black Pearl of the Caribbean avatar Hawk.
Like it!
M.

[AuntShecky]

Thank you Steven, Hawk, and Manichaean for your flattering responses and especially for the detailed analysis of the hodge-podge Sheckian style. All three of you seem to be asking the muscial question, "Where the heck is she going with this?" To that, I can only beg for your patience, with the assurance similar to that of the emcee down at the Boom-Boom Room, telling the distinguished and increasingly sloshed audience that Ms Tequila Mockingbird will fulfill all fond expectations, and sooner (or later, depending upon every table hitting the mark of the two-drink minimum): By and by, ALL WILL BE REVEALED!

“The Lyin’ King” – Part 3

The items on the agenda under discussion within the King’s private quarters were evidently so important that the two participants never noticed that somebody was hiding behind the arras and listening to every word. The current item on the agenda was a recently delivered piece of royal furniture. Though the previous afternoon Tom --along with the de rigueur grunts and groans--had hauled the object up the palace stairs, he didn’t recognize the item now that it was outside the box. Tom himself hadn’t assembled the unit because of very strict guild rules; despite the illegality of the existence of guilds, their rank-and-file members enforced the self-imposed sanctions to keep every worker’s specified duties within highly-circumscribed guidelines, protecting, as it were, one’s own turf. Thus, Tom had been allowed only the privilege of transporting the unwieldy carton from Point A way the hell up to Point B. It was the province of the Royal Carpenters to slash open the container, decipher the laughably-imprecise instructions printed on flimsy paper, and execute the job of connecting Tab A into Slot B, and so on. Despite his relatively remote vantage point, Tom could see the thing fully-assembled. He was no world-class interior decorator, but for his money (scant as it was), it was a piece of “something,” all right.

“So this is our new Seat of Power, aye?” The voice bellowed expansively, perhaps even cheerfully. The King was in a good mood (so far, for if truth be told, the king’s personality and physical stature exactly fit the description of a later philosopher’s portrait of the life of prehistoric man: “nasty, brutal, and short.”) This was “Brot the Magnificent,” –“Brot,” the first car of a long train of given names terminating with a self-styled adjectival caboose, though behind his back neighboring rulers, his own courtiers, even the average serf on the street dropped the flattering soubriquet and called him as they saw him--Brot the Mendacious, (or) The Lyin’ King.

The heels on the shoes of his bowed legs clickety-clacked as His Royal Highness waddled his porky self around the latest acquisition. The Royal Hands gripped the wooden back and their overly-lotioned, androgynous palms caressed the over-stuffed business end, proclaimed (at least on the original container) as having been fabricated from “fine Corinthian leather.”

“Tell us, Entgleisung, is this upstart bundle of kidding wood worthy of containing our Royal Posterity?” *

Tom chuckled to himself. “Hah! He means his big, fat, Royal ar–“

“Indeed it is, Sire.” The chief advisor nodded so much that his floppy, mushroom-shaped cap almost slid off his head. “Your new throne has been fashioned from the finest timber hewn from the most interior grove of the most virginal hardwood forest on the globe. Not only is it custom-designed by the world’s most creative artisans, the piece is one of a kind–“

“Boner find, sewer June heiress?”

“Bonafide, sui generis, Sire.”

The monarch glowered. “Do not mock our way of speaking!”

“A thousand pardons, your Articulateness. If I may state further, your majesty has the unique honor – an honor for which you are most worthy, I may add– of becoming the first recipient of an entirely new genre of modern furniture style–“

“John Re-who?”


“You, sire, will be the first consumer in history to be the proud owner of the premiere of Danish Medieval! A contemporary trend setter can’t get any more cutting edge than that!”

“Danish, huh?” Tom thought. He took another look at the chair and decided something must be rotten in Denmark.

Generally conscious of his own above-average height in his position as a vassal to the king, above whom he physically towered, Entgleisung nonetheless took the risk of straightening himself up to stand big and tall, though not to the extent that he looked intimidating–no, never that. His monotonously long robe, stretching from shoulders to the floor, made him look as if he wore his own shadow, 24/7. Even though his share of the royal coffers paid him well enough that he could purchase more than one change of clothes, he wore the same gloomy duds day after day. Even though Entgleisung was not fashion’s slave, at least he was savvy enough to wear black (for this was back when Black was still the New Black.) “If I may be so bold, Sire, perhaps you’d like to try it out for size?”

The King took another series of turns around the new chair; round and round he went, as a dog zeroing in on a piece of real estate, clean of pee and perfect for a snooze. Finally, with his back to the chair, he took a few tentative backward steps, reached behind to feel for the seat, and then, after a few shakes of the royal–uh, posterior-- gradually eased himself down.

The expression that crossed the monarch’s face did not in any way convey pleasure. Shifting in his seat, he seemed to undergo experiments with alternative positions within the narrow confines of the throne, the proverbial exercise in futility, given the apparent lack of wiggle room. Witnessing this, Tom sensed trouble afoot (as well as other parts of the royal anatomy.) For he had hung around the palace long enough to know full well that when the king ain’t comfortable, ain’t nobody comfortable!

It was more than a case of mere discomfort. Several times the king attempted to rise; each time some irresistible force pulled him back. The chair had entrapped him; he could not get up.

It was all Tom could do from bursting into raucous laughter. Even with both hands firmly smacked in front of his tightly-closed mouth, the merriment fought like mad to get out. His shoulders shook, his entire body convulsed, stirring up such movement that the arras danced a sprightly jig, threatening to give him away.

“What kind of medieval torture device have you ejected us to!” The king screamed.

“A veritable Pretender to the Throne!” Tom exclaimed to himself between silent giggles.

“Don’t just stand there like a log on a frog, Entgleisung! Extradite us from this thing!”

The second-in-command, who in an emergency was about as useful as a pinwheel in a cyclone, took this as another opportunity to express how humbly sincere and sincerely humble he was and how blessed he felt for the opportunity to serve a master of such magnitude, etc. “A thousand apologies for this unfortunate mishap, Your Grace. I shall notify the guilty parties for having the effrontery to insult you with such shoddy merchandise. I shall demand a full refund at once!”

“Never mind that! Release us!”

With his skinny arms within the oversized sleeves, Entgleisung gently lifted the two white-knuckled royal paws gripping the armrests of the chair and pulled with all of his might (which was minimal.) Somehow he managed to get the king upright. Brot the Magnificent slapped the bony hands away and began to hobble around the room. Needless to say, the chair remained attached to the royal rear end. In his russet-colored robe trimmed with ermine, the king looked like a small New World woodland mammal who had fallen into a thicket of thorny sticks which stubbornly clung to its tail.

“Get us out of this thing, Entgleisung !”

“I’ll try, Sire, truly. But how?” He snapped his fingers. “Ah, I know just the thing, Sire. Perchance would there be in the palace a jar of petroleum jelly? “

The king, still attempting to twist and tug, raised his little arm and pointed his index finger toward the Royal Master Suite. “In the royal bedchamber. On M’ lady’s end table.”

Entgleisung raised an eyebrow for a second, proceeded as directed, then suddenly stopped, his foot in mid-step. He’d take the full wrath of the indisposed king before confronting the vigilance of the Queen’s devoted bodyguard. The advisor spun around and said, “On second thought, Sire– - it might be more productive to get some muscle in here. Allow me to summon up that lug in receivables– what’s his face–“ Entgleisung snapped his fingers in rapid succession– - “that smart mouth punk built like an ox. You know who I mean, ah, what’s his name?– it’s on the tip of my tongue!”

Hearing this, Tom continued to shake, but this time not from repressed laughter. What could he do? Hightail it down to his own quarters, where– if he was able to make it on time–he’d be forced to explain why he was there, slacking off, instead of bustling about the palace fulfilling his duties. And were he to remain where he was, how would he explain that– spying on the King!– that was tantamount to treason – or worse! And what about the undelivered envelope? For the first time in his young life Tom found himself in the exact same position as the king – - stuck!


*”Posterity,” “boner find, sewer June heiress,” “John-re” etc.– The King’s English is not exactly The King’s English. His idiolect seems largely comprised of malapropisms, bits of parapraxis (Freudian slips, pre-Freud), catachresis, and Spoonerisms. He has something in common with certain motion picture producers who flourished in the Golden Age of Hollywood, such as this one (http://www.anecdotage.com/index.php?aid=2001).


TO BE CONTINUED

[Hawkman]

Hi there Auntie, This tale seems to be expanding exponentially, given your earlier claim to want to get it finished, communicated some weeks ago now. Still, who am I to go on about unfinished tales... How long is it since I started Perigore, and wasn't the last instalment in April? LOL.

I had no problem with the royal malapropisms, although your link was blocked by my anti virus software for some reason. No. I was far more interested in Entgeisung! Where on earth did you dig this Germanic moniker up? Incidently, if you were intending that his name should mean "derailment" (which is odd enough) you omitted an L - Entgleisung.

Entertaining enough though, but one is left wondering, Quo Vadis?

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

“The Lyin’ King” Part Four

The Imperially Supreme Ruler of the Kingdom of Cappoccia and all of its Provinces, Territories, and Possessions had the bottom end of a chair stuck to his own personal bottom.The four legs of the ignoble object protruding into mid-air resembled a rack of underdeveloped antlers at half-mast. Hopping around the Royal Conference Room in such a unnatural fashion, the king appeared to be a pygmy reindeer walking backwards.

“What are you waiting for, Entgleisung–-Crispness? Do something!”

The chief advisor was in need of a little advice himself. The more intensely he studied the problem, the less he knew how to solve it.

The royal patience, however, was thinner than the gruel on your average Cappoccian breakfast table. “Any time there, Genius. We have to use the chamber pot.”

Meanwhile, out behind the arras in the vestibule, Tom was plagued by the demand for a quick decision: should he stay or should he go? No sooner had the imperative crossed his mind that an answer to his prayers appeared -–that is to say, reappeared--in the flesh; in any other circumstances Tom would have avoided the individual like the latest pestilence beginning to creep into the farthest corners of the continent, but at that moment he could have kissed the brute, for the guy was a human escape route, a walking alibi.

“Wha’ the–? Still here?”

“That’s right, Officer. I’ve been doing exactly what you told me to do!”

The guard stroked his scruffy beard and permitted the brief indication of a smug smile. “Why, so I did. You were commanded to stand right there.”

Tom nodded enthusiastically. “Yep. Let it not be said that Tobias Hofstedler“ --Whoops! This particular situation called for his real name! --“That Tom from Shipping and Receiving didn’t follow an order!” Then, adding the cushion of insurance, “And I’ll bet you’ll remember to jot this tidbit of information on your daily blotter tonight. I mean, just so no one can say that one of His Majesty’s guards is less than thorough.“

“Damn straight!” Tom’s former tormentor-turned-deliverer had begun to puff up with what he took to be recently-discovered evidence of the power which he’d always secretly believed he possessed. It tricked him into feel invincible. The guard peeked into the Royal Conference Room, then looked back at Tom. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait just a teeny bit longer.” With heavy, authoritative steps the guard began to march directly into the King’s private quarters.

Entgleisung was still coming up short (though not as short as the king himself.) “No doubt you are aware, Your Majesty, of how imprudent ‘twould be to have word of your sudden er, inconvenience, fly freely through the palace. And beyond.”

“You mean it will spread like wild flowers? ‘Bout time our name crossed the commoners’ lisps.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but ‘twould be undignified to be glimpsed in such a compromising position, hence my reluctance to summon the Royal Carpenter-“

“Go ahead, call ‘em! Get those incontinent shoemakers up here to underdo the damnage they’ve already gauzed us. Tell ‘em to bring their hammocks and wenches.”

The guard took notice that he’d been standing there unnoticed. He cleared his throat and clicked the heels of his well-shined clodhoppers. This made the King rear up, or as far up as he could, given the unusual circumstances (though even in a more normal state of affairs the top of his head wouldn’t come up to a average man’s waist.)

“Ah, one of our palace’s finest! “ The King, who liked to think he possessed the common touch, seized the opportunity to show that he could “relate” to the average Joe by segueing into his version of the vulgate. “How’s it goin’ there, uh –“ stretching his neck in order to read the badge –“Keefe?”

“At your service, Your Majesty. It’s ‘Keith’.” He bowed down as far as a human being could go without licking the floor.

“Well, that’s what we said, Keefe. You know us, of course, and that’s –“ he jerked a thumb Entgleisung’s way –“our expedient serpent.”

Keith nodded at the advisor, who in turn greeted him with a sideways glance punctuated with a sneer.

With considerable effort, the King swung an arm around the guard’s shoulder–a sight made all the more ridiculous with a chair hanging off the royal behind. “This is your lucky day,Keefe, old chap, old bean. How’s about helping your beloved ol’ Monarch out of a jam?”

“Oh, anything, Sire! Anything!”

“All’s you gotta do is remove this chair from our you -know -what.”

The guard slowly shook his head. “Gee, I don’t know, Sire.”

Entgleisung’s face brightened– which is to say, brightened as much as a dank cellar would if somebody lit a match. “What are you saying, you sniveling weakling? That you’re not up to the task?

“It’s not that.” To prove his point, Keith flexed his left biceps a mere couple of centimeters in front of Entgleisung’s nose. “This isn’t exactly the bailiwick of law enforcement. His Majesty might be better served by the Royal Carpenters in this particular case. I’m just sayin’.” What he wasn’t saying was that, despite his gruff presence, the guard was intimidated by the tacitly stringent territorial rules of both guilds.

The King wasn’t having any part of the excuse. “Why would you hand over your chance to shine to a bunch of hammock swingers, huh? Rescue us, and your grating king will reward you handsomely,” he lied.

Tom, still awake and waiting behind the arras, had to laugh. A “handsome” reward? He’d never heard of the king bestowing any kind of reward, not even one with a nice personality.

“If you’re going to do it, hurry up. His Majesty needs to answer the Call of Nat–“

The King shook his head. It was Too Late.

The guard shrugged his shoulders, popped off a couple of stretching exercises, and gripped both royal arms. One quick pull succeeded in lifting the King and the chair off the floor. Keith pulled again, but still the chair hung on, like a party-goer refusing to go home until the last drop of liquor was gone.

Keith pulled his mighty sword out of its sheath. He bent the king-and-chair over with little more deference than he would show a palace urchin caught in the act of picking some courtier’s pocket. He held one of the chair legs with one hand, and with the other tried to saw away with his sword. The action produced a strange sound-- Arrupa-arrupa! –but little else. The integrity of the Danish (maybe Norwegian) wood did not permit as much as a scratch.

The lack of progress filled Entgleisung with secret delight. “Ho, ho– looks like your sword needs sharpening– - just like your wits!” he said.

By now Officer Keith was getting angry. He was about to blow a golden opportunity to ingratiate himself with the king. His apparent inability to become an instant hero irked him as much as the insults of the condescending advisor. Looking around the chamber for another makeshift tool, he noticed a life-sized object in the corner: a full set of armor, gleaming from the metallic elongated toes all the way up to the helmet, whose top and facial mask both terminated into a tapered tip. The latter resembled the beak of a bird, though no creature in Creation could boast a snout so thinly-pointed as that of the knight who would wear this get-up (hypothetically speaking, of course: you could fit three, maybe four, Brots inside.) The outfit looked just like one of those props in a so-called “haunted house,” which audiences in theatres hundreds of years into the future would regard only as set decorations. At this particular moment, though, here in Cappoccia, the suit of armor was neither an antique nor a relic from the distant past but a contemporary unit of military apparel. In fact, it had been hanging in the corner only for a couple of days, ever since Tom had returned it from the cleaners.

But the operative feature of the standing object was not the suit of armor itself but what it seemed to clutch in its handless metal glove. It “held” (so to speak) a battle ax whose business end was massive enough to crush a boulder yet whose finely-honed edge could slice a strand of gossamer. Once Keith released this formidable weapon from the steely clench, the whole kaboodle–-arms, torso, head, legs–-shimmied and began its systematic descent to the floor; the clanging crescendo reverberated throughout the palace, finally ending with an accusatory silence. “Whoops!” Tom remarked.

Looking as if he had just slain a unicorn, Keith stared at the pile of scrap metal interfering with the aesthetic integrity of the marble floor. For thirty seconds or so he waited for the inevitable repercussion–a reprimand (or worse.) As soon as he was relatively confident that he had escaped immediate punishment, he picked up the handle of the battle ax. Once more he bent the King over, and raised the ax over the royal back. Then, with little fanfare, he started hacking away.

“Great Saints in Heaven!” Tom gasped. Had anyone on earth ever witnessed anything so preternaturally rare, so oddly unprecedented, so rip-roaringly hilarious? With all his might Tom wished he had a magic mechanism by which he could preserve the view forever! No painter, not even a quick-draw artist, could recapitulate such a scene. If only the French had come up with the camera obscura in Tom’s era instead of centuries later! But leave it to the French –they had the Gaul to keep the rest of the world waiting.

Meanwhile Entgleisung had kept his eyes firmly shut behind his two bony palms with which he covered his face. There was nothing he could do to shut out the noise–a series of sorties consisting of a sharp whoosh followed by the thud of impact, which would sound harsh to even the most jaded of ears. The King’s lids as well were tightly clamped, and the rest of the Royal Personage was too petrified to move, except at the conclusion of each successive thud, when he’d flinch, as if he were a child reacting to each slap of a spanking.

A little while later the guard had completed the task, and –- mirabile dictu -- the King was free. All that was left of the once-and-never throne was a small pile of Scandinavian wood, along with a mashed-up clump of fine Corinthian leather, discarded on the floor next to the heap of the broken knight-suit. The emergency was all over except for the smarting–with the King rubbing his injured parts and dignity. Still remaining was a little matter of the reward --
Not daring to mention it, but at the same time wanting what was due him, Keith cleared his throat and clicked his heels again. At last the king made a kind of acknowledgment. “Oh yeah. Thanks, Keefe. You’re Swissmissed.”

Entgleisung felt the urge to run interference and stepped in. “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon, but please allow a reminder of a previous promise—“

“Huh?”

“The previously-agreed-upon recompense for Officer Keith here–“ With that, the chief advisor furiously winked.

“What’s the matter with you, Entgleisung– you got one of those whachamacallits– a trick?”

With that, Entgleisung slunk behind the guard. He furiously waved his arms and shook his head, as if he were playing a pantomime game. Finally, he took his index finger and ran it across his own throat, from which emerged a guttural sound so clear that Tom could hear it out in the hall.

“Oh, we get you. A ‘reward’!” This time the King himself winked, except the royal version didn’t resemble a tic so much as a full-scale convulsion.

Immediately Entgleisung grabbed a quill and jotted something down. “Bring this down to the boys in the building out behind the South Stable and they’ll take care of you.” He folded the paper, but when Keith stuck out his hand, Entgleisung pulled it back. “On second thought–“ He unfolded the paper, scratched something out, and wrote something else down before re-folding it. “Just show up there at nightfall and tell them who you are. They’ll know what to do.”

With that, Officer Keith took a quick bow and took his leave, never to be seen again (supposedly.) On his way to – - who knows where?– - the guard passed by Tom.

“Are they ready for me yet?”

“Not yet!” Visions of riches and a glorious reputation danced in Officer Keith’s head. What did he care what some castle lackey did?

Entgleisung, meanwhile, stood in the vestibule and clapped his hands. Within seconds, a cute little chambermaid appeared.

“What now?” she said. “I don’t do windows, and I ain’t touchin’ that grimy old tap’stry till next spring!”

The man in black raised his hand as if to slap her. Instead he thrust the paper into her hand and told her where to go and what to do with it.

“I ain’t going down there!”

“Yes, you will, if you know what’s good for you, you good-for-nothing trollop!” With that, he slapped her for real, giving her a swift kick in the butt for good measure.

She waited until the black robe was out of sight before she sat down on the top step and started to cry. In such relative safety, Tom stepped out from behind the arras.

“Hi, Astrid.”

“Oh-- hi, Tom,” she sniffed. “Did you hear where that tall drink of poison wants me to go? I can’t go down there! You know what they say to me, those monsters down there? You know what they try to do to me?”

“I know, I know. Listen, I can tote that slip down there for you. I mean, I’m headed there anyway and–“

“You sure? It’s no trouble. Oh, Tom, you’re a doll!”

“Hey, don’t mention it.”

With her natural cheerfulness restored, the chambermaid went on her way. Tom had no intention of going anywhere– - at least not at the moment. His cheery nature also had revived, now that he had human “insurance “– - and a written insurance policy on the insurance in his pocket.


Because of the length of this particular chapter, it doesn't have footnotes-- unless you think I should have included a YouTube link to "Should I Stay Or Should I Go?" by The Clash.



Nah.


TO BE CONTINUED--

(Let's see if the next chapter has Tom finally emerging from behind the cockamamie arras!)

[AuntShecky]

“The Lyin’ King” Part 5

If Tom had been a risk-averse individual, he would have deemed that moment as a suitable time to abandon his post in the vestibule behind the arras, but an itch in his instinct, perhaps an unusually acute trait of curiosity, compelled him to stay right where he was. “Just a little longer,” he decided. The high angle of the sunlight out the palace window told Tom that it was nearing noon. Another indication was the lunchtime aroma wafting through the palace. Every day around half-past eleven the entire joint would reek of vegetable soup, even when it didn’t appear on the menu. (In this way, the castle in Cappoccia was like a cafeteria in a hospital or a public school hundreds of years in the future.)

By his reckoning Tom had been standing in that very spot for a good four hours, for it had been at least that long since he’d taken leave of the Royal Kitchen --and for all intents and purposes, his senses. His dogs, far too exhausted to bark, were whimpering. Farther up on his torso, the gluteus maximus screamed for a chance to sit down.

By contrast, The King had absolutely no desire to “take a load off.” In a way, the Royal Rear End was still “stuck” –between the First and Third Laws of Motion.* Part of his backside recognized that it had escaped the bonds of the chair, while simultaneously believing it was still so confined -- retaining the seated position, as if the ill-fitting throne were yet intact, “butt” continuing to squeeze as the claws of a stubborn sea creature. The Royal Spine, therefore, remained bent-over in the shape of a sideways “U,” and without affording the effort required for HRH to lift his Royal Neck, the Royal Vision could only take in the design and contour of the marble floor. From time to time The King would rub the Royal Hips, but the manual self-treatment did little to soothe the throbbing region of the Royal Pelvis. Needless to say, His Majesty was eager to put the entire unfortunate incident “behind” him. But before that happened, certain heads would – if not roll– at least totter on their stalks.

Though not known for his expertise in “reading” people or picking up signals, the handler nonetheless had hung around HRH long enough to detect the vagaries of conditions that threatened to spring the hair-trigger on the Royal Mood, and thus he sprang to change the subject, thereby to defuse a potentially explosive situation. “Forgive me , Your Grace, but may I take the liberty to remind His Majesty that the hour to proceed to the Royal Dining Room approaches, and that your Royal Luncheon awaits?”

The King shot him a glance that would have curdled mercury. “What’s the matter with you, Entgleisung? Sometimes we think you’ve got goat manure for brains. Do we look like we are ready to interfere in pubic? Have we the fiscal capacity to – Egad! - sit at table and braid bread or slip wine? Why would we avow all the little people in the palace to see their beloved monarch trans– trans–“

“Transformed?”

The King pointed at Entgleisung and touched his nose. “Transformed into a hunchback. It would break their little hearts.” Still hobbling, the king inched his way over to the window which looked out upon the town and the Damned Dam until he could “stand” (if that’s the word) behind his Royal Telescope with the business end in its resting position, pointing downward. The chief advisor rushed over to adjust the instrument so the King could use it, a gesture which usually involved raising the tripod a mere inch or two, but on this occasion, with the king’s height artificially having been rendered even lower than the normal Royal Height, Engleisung only had to aim the lens out the window.

It was customary for Entgleisung–-not the King himself --to take the first peek; such a duty was analogous to that of a food-taster, except instead of circumventing regicide by swallowing the poison himself, Entgleisung could take a preemptive peek to protect the Royal Eyes from objectionable sights. The quick look-see revealed nothing that would ostensibly affect the Royal Sensibilities – - at least not directly – - but Entgleisung spotted two persons of interest in the courtyard below, close enough to be seen with the naked eye. One thing was clear to Entgleisung– - he would have to deal with them personally, and he would have to do it immediately.

“All set, Sire.” Entgleisung stepped away and guided the already-bent little body closer into an approximate comfortable stance behind the telescope, though under the circumstances “comfortable” doesn’t quite fit. The optical device, however, fascinated The King so much that he regularly spent interminable hours peering through it at everyday phenomena so mundane that even a blind man suddenly regaining his sight would fall into a stupor. Despite the painful incident of the morning, this day was no different, for once again Brot fell under the telescope’s spell.

With the King’s attention thus occupied, Entgleisung grabbed the opportunity to take care of the exigency of the duo in the courtyard. The king was so entranced by long-distance sight-seeing that Entgleisung was certain he’d be able to slip out, take care of the personal business, and never be missed. He tiptoed out of the chamber, into the vestibule and straight away down the palace stairs, without so much as a glance at the tapestry that had been hanging there forever nor at Tom, who’d been hiding there almost as long.

Tom had spotted him, though, and wondered what was up. Maybe to tell the kitchen to send up the lunch? Another chance for Tom to bail- –let the delivery of the manila envelope go hang –- and yet –- he smelled something fishy in the air, and it wasn’t the bouquet of noontime bouillabaisse.

Entgleisung’s swift departure was more than merely intriguing: that Tom couldn’t dare to dart over to the window to find out for himself irritated our hero like a bit of grit circumventing the impenetrable shell of an oyster. Just as it takes time for the crustacean to spin the invasive bit of foreign matter into a pearl, it would be a while before Tom would discover the meaning of Entgleisung’s mad dash and how he’d be able to use it to his advantage.** For the record, though – - in a vain attempt to move the murky broth of this convoluted plot along – this is what ( as is said in the vulgate)“went down”:

Once he arrived in the courtyard, Entgleisung realized the imperative of staying out of sight, at least from the perspective of the Royal Chamber window. Initially he side-stepped along the exterior of the castle while hugging the stony exterior wall, until he feared that such a furtive action would draw attention by making him look like a sneak thief. He took the gamble of segueing into Plan B. Betting that HRH had been directing the lens out into the distant horizon instead of directly below the window, Entgleisung made a mad, diagonal dash. Behind the dark robes his feeble legs sprinted to a corner of the courtyard well beyond the lateral range of the telescope’s sweep. Huffing, puffing, and bent over nearly into the same position as his Ruler (post chair trauma), Entgleisung waved his arms toward the two persons of interest, who eventually picked up the signal. They marched over to Engleisung right out in the open.

And their palms were open as well–and not to offer a handshake. Entgleisung nearly spit into them.

Both strangers returned the dirty look. “Really? Bupkis? What’re ya, kidding me?” asked the contractor named Sören. He and his partner, Tycho, hadn’t come all this way for a gig merely to return to Copenhagen empty-handed.*** “We rigged da booby trap just like ya said. And da boob got trapped. So cough it up.”

Entglung, tight-lipped and tight-fisted, began to walk away. Tycho’s beefy arms sprang out as swiftly as a switch-blade, grabbed Entgleisung’s black collar, and pulled him back. “Forgot sum’in, ‘aven’t cha, gov’nr?” Once again the strangers stuck out their palms.

The chief advisor sighed. “Why should I pay you slackers? You only did half the job. All right, so maybe a certain piece of furniture did entrap a certain party in the --” At that precise moment, a group of young ladies in the courtyard happened to pass by, and Entgleisung’s voice dropped to a whisper. “–‘a’ double ‘s.’ But you failed to seize the um, item and cart it away.”

“We wus goin’ to!” Sören yelled. “Had the tarp ready and everything!” From behind his back he produced a blanket-sized rectangle of cracked oilcloth.

Instantly Entgleisung grabbed it, crunched it up, threw it back behind Sören’s back.“ And by ‘swounds, keep your bloody voices down! “

“ ’At’s right, Guv’n’r. We seen you and the King–“

“Shhh!” Entgleisung held his index finger in front of his razor-thin lips.

“–and the um, item in question. We was just abouts to lift hims up and carries him off, but a t’ird person was there -- a witness!”

“What? What are you talking ab–“ Entgleisung slapped his forehead. “Arrgh! That damned guard!”

“Uh, the guy we seen didn’t look like no guard,” Sören clarified. “I mean he weren’t wearing no cop’s uniform or nothin’.”

Tycho seconded the information. “No, ‘e weren’t no const’ble, Sir. Standing right behind the drap’ries ‘e was. Blimey! Any fool coulda seen ‘m!”

Instantly all kinds of dire clichés invaded Entgleisung’s brain: another fly in the ointment, another straw to break the camel’s back, another nail in the coffin. Despite all that, he vowed to get to the bottom of this chink in the armor, and reaffirmed to himself a vow to see his diabolic plan through to the end. There was no time to waste. But at the moment he had to make haste to return to the Royal Chamber before The King noticed his absence.

Entgleisung reached into the pockets of his voluminous robe and pulled out a tiny leather bag, the contents of which he dumped into Sören’s open hand.

“Hey– this is only half of what we agreed on!”

“You’re lucky to get that, “ Entgleisung said as he backtracked along the castle wall. As he slithered up the interior staircase, he made a mental note to remember to make a new entry in the Fiscal Book-- or should we say books–-one Royal and a second, less-official volume. Unbeknownst to the Chief Advisor, the books weren’t the only things being cooked, for in the near future a certain party’s goose would also undergo that same fate. And we’re not talking about the Palace Lunch.



*
Anachronism alert! (Cf. The “you, me, and the lamppost" controversy in Part One.)The reference to the First and Third Laws of Motion seems to predate Newton, but we can all assume that the Laws themselves were working long before Sir Isaac set a spell underneath that apple tree. Similarly, the telescope appearing a few paragraphs later assumably predates Galileo. Then again the time setting for this Flailing Tale is vague, like the “alternative universe” of Game of Thrones.

**
A “workaround” to compensate for playing fast and loose with the third person narration, which up until now it had all been more-or-less filtered through Tom’s perspective.

***
Both Sören and Tycho evidently had left their Danish accents at home.


TO BE CONTINUED

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie, just a note to let you know I'm still reading. :)

Poor old Entgleisung, in the first half of this instalment you deprived him of his t. I must say, it's a relief to finally get out of the royal presence and breath a little fresh air, even if you left Tom behind to do it. :D the only real criticism I have of this bit is the exposition of the pre lunchtime smells. The mere mention of them was so evocative it transported me first to school and then through various insitiutions, up to and including several warships I served on. However, by the time I reached this point in my reverie, I was conscious that the recollection had been transformed into one of boiled cabbage and sweat, particularly on arriving at the bottom of the hatch ladder on HMS Oberon, (I think) definietly an O class, Diesel powered submarine anyway.

For me, the subsequent reference to the future and the association of the cooking smells with schools and institutions, was completely superfluous and killed the moment.

You are driving me nuts with that envelope! What's in it? I do hope it's not going to be a McGuffin!

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

“The Lyin’ King” – - Part 6

The physical insult which The King had suffered earlier that day continued to nag. Periodically he’d rub his throbbing sides and the other affected area along with an effort to straighten up, triggering a pained moan if not an anguished wail, though instead of surrendering to the persistent demands of the injury, he attempted to deflect them with the spell-binding diversion provided by his telescope.

The King’s audible discomfort did not escape Tom’s notice from his hiding place in the vestibule, which had all but become his second home (not that his actual living quarters were worth writing home about: merely a former utility closet “furnished” with a stone- hard cot and precious few amenities down in the dank bowels of the castle.) Despite his lowly status around the palace, Tom’s burly exterior appearance suggested an all-but-invincible demigod, an individual who, had he so chosen, could have literally thrown his weight around. One look at Tom and a stranger would automatically assume that the M.O. for this Hercules was “might makes right. “ It would seem unthinkable that such a formidable physique would house a spirit whose primary motivation was compassion. But it was true: strongman on the outside; marshmallow on the inside. Mere acquaintances tended to cower in his presence, whereas his intimate associates considered him to be “an old softie” or – as moony-eyed females oft described him – a “big cupcake.”

Tom had earned his pleasant reputation from his youthful pranks with the drawbridge, where he’d learned to perceive the line between comedy from cruelty. It had taken some hard lessons in self-restraint for Tom to recognize the costly mistake of going for a cheap laugh simply because he could. There was also a finer distinction: doing what one should, venturing upon a higher moral road which he always felt compelled to take, even when it carried considerable risk to himself. Hearing The King’s distress calls was becoming a bit too much for Tom to bear. It wasn’t in his nature to remain inert in the midst of the sights and sounds of suffering. If he wouldn’t ignore the cries and whimpers of a wounded forest creature, how could he abandon a fellow human being in his hour of need? Never mind that the injured party happened to be a bumbling fool, a tyrant, a lying sack of swine manure. The King, after all, co-habited the world with Tom among the countless commoners whom the ruthless simpleton had oppressed- –and although the young laborer had earlier enjoyed a private guffaw at his monarch’s well-deserved humiliation – - Tom resolved to do what he would have wanted done for him, had their situations been reversed.

Tom remembered a little trick he’d picked up from the time he was a strapping adolescent, already sprouting massive muscle tone in legs thick as Doric columns. Whenever his guardian succumbed to the occupational hazard of a chronic backache, the Royal Gatekeeper would lie on his belly and instruct Tom to stride up and down the spine, to stomp away the pain.*

With the ruler’s bent-back to him, Tom tip-toed directly into the chamber; within seconds he was close enough to breathe down the Royal Neck. Tom looked closely at the hunch in the King’s back, and a brief glance at his chubby legs showed an dark ellipsis on the front of the Royal Trunk Hose and two damp spots on each of the inseams of the Royal Upperstocks , and from the combination of all three violations upon the Royal Sartorial Ensemble there wafted an odd odor, a vague mixture of ammonia and asparagus. The telescope bobbled as Tom grabbed The King from behind. Tom covered the Royal Eyes with one hand, the Royal Mouth with the other. The latter action did little to muffle the Royal Protests, so Tom removed the makeshift gag right before settling the King flat on the marble floor-- or as nearly flat as The King’s parabolic spine allowed. With the little King thus prone, Tom began to walk all over him. Literally.


Brot’s interjections of pain continued to spurt between gasps. “ Yow! Acckk! Entgleisung! what is the meaning of–- Oof! Our back!– Ow! Oooh, oooh– - - Ahhhh. . .” Like a supplicant after a quick dunk into the fountain of a miraculous shrine, The King raised both arms in a prayerful gesture and attempted to get up and walk. Tom shot to his knees and placed one of his hammy palms on the Monarch’s back, keeping him down.

It was critical that the King not turn his head around and even more crucial for him to believe that it was the chief advisor, not an unauthorized person nor trespasser, whose footprints trod upon the Royal Presence. This was no time for self-doubt; Tom had to come up with an instant plan to elaborate on the ruse and take the assumed identity to the next level. As a self-taught, would-be jester, Tom had not yet mastered the complete set of comic skills, least of all the art of mimicry, but he had no choice but to give it his best shot.

“Easy there, Sire! Please don’t move,” he commanded in an approximation of Entgleisung’s hoarse yet imposing baritone. “If your Majesty would please be patient, the cure needs a moment of rest in order to -- to take.” He pressed his palm down harder on the Royal Back.

The King looked ready to say something, overridden by an insistent “Shhh!” which sounded more like Tom than Entglesung. With the king still temporarily restrained,Tom craned his neck and peeked out the window at the courtyard below. The sight of Entgleisung heading for the palace steps flung Tom into panic mode. In his frenzied search for a last-ditch escape, he happened to spot the discombobulated suit of armor, still resting like a heap of scrap metal on the floor. “If your majesty would, please remain perfectly still. And keep your eyes tightly shut.”

Mere moments later Entgleisung re-entered the Royal Chambers with scant ceremony and even less fanfare. Seeing the Monarch in a prostrate –- or , as The King would put it, “prostate”-- position surprised him, but only a little, re-confirming again his long-held conviction that the King couldn’t be left alone, not even for a minute. On the other hand, the body lying motionless on the floor could be a sign that Entgleisung’s fondest wish had come true at long last. Either way, it seemed prudent to check.

Quietly he knelt down beside The King and flipped him over on his back, but unlike a schoolboy terrorizing a poor turtle, he turned him gingerly, almost squeamishly. This was no easy task, given the King’s considerable, albeit compact, avoirdupois. It was similar to attempting to lift a dead weight.

Beneath the bushy eyebrows, the lids were shut, but the outlying whiskers of the beard fluttered and the barrel chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm. Asleep, then.

Entgleisung cleared his throat. “Sire? A thousand pardons, Sire, but would not his Majesty better enjoy his nap on the Royal Bed?”

Two beady eyes opened quickly enough to make Entgleisung jump. “A ‘ nap?‘ What are you talking about, Entgleisung? Not a minuet ago you told us to lie still! Do you not reconnect that you retrieved our back to its normal proposition? You’re losing your mammary!”

The chief advisor shook his head and sighed. Obviously, the old coot was hallucinating, perhaps precipitated by a fever. The open skeletal palm aimed for The King’s forehead was swatted away with a slap.


“Make yourself useful, Entgleisung, and help us up.”

The king’s left-hand** man obeyed the command and held the Royal Elbows as he guided him over to a nearby (presumably unrigged) chair. The King started to ease himself down into it, thought better of it, and by his own power stood at the Royal Table. “It will please you to know that our cessation with the kaleidoscope this day was a most fruit-filled one.”

“Oh, was it indeed, Sire?”

“Why, we just said so, Brickbrain! See? You’re losing all your facilities. But yes, we saw that Operation Gatewater is processing apace. I trust that all will go swarmingly for Tonight’s Extravaganza.”

“Indeed it shall, Sire.”

“Through the kaleidoscope we could just make out the little colored lanterns all lined up along the rind of the dam. As for the other feature, has the shibboleth arrived?”

“I have word that the shipment from the snow-capped peaks of the Callistan Mountains is on its way -–“

“ ‘On its way?’ It absotively, posilutely must be here by tonight! The minuet it hits the warps, the lounge suremen’s guild must make haste to–“ The King’s harangue stopped short as if he were suddenly distracted, like a wolf’s pursuit of a rabbit overridden by the appearance of a lamb. The King furrowed his forehead and looked around. “Something’s different about this room.”

Entgleisung hadn’t noticed any change, but then again he wasn’t the most observant person in Christendom; for instance, the legendary arras in the foyer could have been taken down and replaced with a painting of a quartet of curs playing whist, and he would have never known the difference. For all intents and purposes -– which in Entgleisung’s case were mainly malicious and nefarious–- the man in black was in full command of his faculties, and his memory (albeit selective) had thus far showed no signs of deteriorating. Still, he had apparently forgotten everything about the primary Conversation Piece in the Royal Chambers– - both in its intact and shattered states.

The King looked beside himself in bafflement. “Something has been changed – we just can’t stick our fingers into it. Well, no matter: we have other fish to fly. “

New business? Entgleisung was as eager to hear another proposal from Brot the way an average Cappoccian anticipated a visit from the Royal Tax Collector. In urgent need of fortification, the advisor reached for the small cask of sack on the desk and poured himself a goblet-ful. The failure to ask permission and/or to offer a taste to one’s superior displayed a severe breach of etiquette, but the King’s head had plunged into another channel, awash with whims rather than afloat with ideas.

Meanwhile, Tom seemed to have survived a desperate bid to avoid detection. Somehow he had managed to reassemble and don a completely dismantled set of armor in record time.But by everything that was good and holy it was snug in there. Tom felt like a sturgeon jammed into a container designed for a handful of itty-bitty herrings. Hellishly hot as well. Good thing the thermometer hadn’t been yet invented, for had a mercury column been hanging inside that man-sized tin can, the viscous line would have shot high, well above the century mark,*** scientific evidence of actual heat, the knowledge of which would’ve made him feel that much hotter.


The discomfort of the self-imposed confinement tested the metal man’s “mettle;” also, mental, for Tom had to focus his concentration on Job Number One: getting out safely.So far, so good. The key was taking it slowly – - step by step, inch by inch.****

The escape route, though short in length, was necessarily protracted in duration, allowing Tom to continue to listen in on the private conversation, the lure of which had been the very reason he had willingly put himself at risk in the first place. While he proceeded with caution, Tom allowed the discourse between the King and his advisor to infiltrate the armored disguise where he, like a workaholic woodpecker determined to leave no grub unpecked, captured every word.

“We expeditioned with the uddermost setting on the kaleidoscope today, Entgleisung. Your excruciatingly clever ruler cranked her all the way up to ‘Eleven.” The King paused, perhaps to allow his advisor a reply of approbation--in vain. “Bet you can’t guess what we saw– clear as the nose on your face. Come on, guess!”

“Oh, Sire, I couldn’t presume to –-“

“Hah! Haven’t the floggiest, have you? Well, in our infinite generality, we shall share it with you. There, across that wide Occam, we saw it, Entgleisung. The prissy, white sandy breeches of Genitalia.”

“Gentletralia.”

The King picked up a small paperweight sculpted in the shape of a lioness and threw it at him. “Do not collect us! We’re not telling you again! Now, we took in the schematic sight of all that lovely breechfront property and we asked ourselves: ‘Why is it that the Genitalians get to enjoin that breech while the illrustious ruler of Cappoccia only has a lousy dam?’ Then we asked ourselves ‘How can we rectumfy this miscarnage of justice?’ Then--” frantically pointing at Entgleisung, generally pointing, pointing to make his point–“Then from out of the middle of the blue, the answer came to us.”

Again, the caesura; again, no reply.

“Entgleisung! Don’t you want to know the answer?”

“Yes, yes, of course, Sire. Please go on.” Entgleisung took another swig of the Spanish wine.

“One word: War!”

Entgleisung’s spit-take was so forceful that the expelled droplets splattered the opposite wall with little amber dots. The dire word likewise startled Tom, who immediately feared that his involuntary flinch inside the armored shell might give him away with an audible clang.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over the pretense for war, Entgleisung. We– we mean you and, uh, we, can hammock out the entrails this afternoon. Then at tonight’s Ball–-right before Operation Gateway rips the socks off of everybody-- we’ll present the Royal Ejaculation!”

To reiterate, the advisor had witnessed first-hand the outrageous caprices of the addled King over the years, but this time-- Entgleisung was certain--the idiot had taken a one-way nose dive off the deep end. He envisioned putting in hours of overtime to spin away the damaging vagaries of the out-of-control maniac, but– but then again, this might be the golden opportunity Entgleisung had been waiting for. He’d be able to scrub his original personal scheme, the details of which were becoming increasingly complicated every day, and yet jump-start his vaulting ambition. It would only take a simple matter of having the little squirt certified as insane, and voila! Only he–- the noble, self-sacrificing Entgleisung– -possessed the qualifications to step up and restore the Kingdom to normalcy. “Regent”–- even the title itself had a beautiful sound. He could almost hear himself calming the fears of the people not merely in Cappoccia but throughout the known world, from Alexandria to The Hague, with the reassuring words: “I’m in charge here.”

At the moment, though, the only words Entgleisung uttered involved a gentle reminder that The King begin his own personal preparations for the Gala that night.

“Which doublet shall it be, Entgleisung– - the burgundy satin with the classic ermine trim? Perhaps the gold brocade, or does it make us look fat? “

“I am certain your Majesty will look his best, as he always does. Right now, Sire, if you will, I shall draw your bath.”

“Oh, there’s no need for a picture of the Royal Tub, Entgleisung. Just pour some water into it.”

Finally, finally! the steel-covered Tom had safely made it out of the Royal Chamber and wasted no time lifting up the pointed visor, an action which-- he could have sworn –released a fetid cloud. It was such a relief to take a gulp of (relatively) fresher air.

He made one last stop behind the arras to pick up the manila envelope, still undelivered lo these many hours later. A old hand at surreptitiously opening envelopes without resorting to steam, Tom employed his tried-and-true method. Within seconds, his metal -gloved hands held the inner contents while the original envelope, virtually unscathed, rested on the floor.

The document was a deed to some real property, a gift to The King from a lower-level dignitary whose claim to the rank – barely a viscount – was not unassailable and therefore forced the quasi-nobleman to cast about for opportunities to prove his worthiness. Tom himself knew well the acreage represented by the fancy font of the deed; the “land” (if it could be called that) “consisted” (if that’s the word) of viscid muck and mire, rendered no less undesirable by the ameliorating veneer of the term “wetlands.” In reality, it was nothing but a swamp– and a nasty one at that. Tom remembered sloshing through the area with his guardian in search of ghastly serpents to dump into the moat. It mattered not a whit whether the snakes they’d wrangled were poisonous–- merely looking venomous was enough.

Without a doubt, the King would consider the worthless gift not merely disrespectful but a gravely treasonous insult, thus setting off the peals of the death knell for the ambitious upstart. By not delivering the parchment to its intended recipient, Tom would be doing the deluded sender a favor. He was going to rip the damn thing up then and there, but changed his mind. He’d wait until his next visit to the Royal Kitchen where he’d fling it into the stove, thereby transforming the incriminating evidence into ashes. With that, he descended the interior stairs, the steely shoes with the pointed toes clinking with every step.

*
Remember, kids– - don’t try this at home!

**
Apologies to southpaws, but this guy is really sinister.

***
That is to say, 100 degrees, “fair in height.” In order to calculate the equivalent reading in the alternate system of thermal measurement, obtain a centipede and divide it into five equal ninths.

****
Cf. The “Niagara Falls” bit popularized by the Three Stooges.


TO BE CONTINUED

[Hawkman]

Poor King Brot! Had no one the nous to call for the Groom of the Stool? You're still entertaining me Auntie, though I doubt even Tom's ability to don a suit of armour, single handed and silently :D

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King – Part 7

The tiny town surrounding the King’s Palace was all a-bustle. Too insignificant ever to be given a name and unworthy of the title of “Capital” of Cappoccia, it hardly could call itself a village, let alone a town. On maps of Cappoccia its existence was verified only by a haphazardly-drawn “X,” hardly distinguishable from a flyspeck. The area was more than a mere widening in the road, though; it was a long-standing settlement, and human beings lived there.

In addition to the hastily-built and exquisitely unnecessary dam, the man-made structures in the town numbered slightly less than two score. A few rows of stone buildings, portions of which had been leased at back-breaking rents to commoners who possessed neither land nor financial resources, stood at a respectable distance from the castle. Even so, these low-rise erections* seemed to thrive in their proximity to the palace, as if they were upstart parasites groping for the nourishment of nobility (though the current regime had sucked all the meaning out of the term.) Connoisseurs of the Picturesque could quell their condescending cravings** with a view of a collection of thatch-roofed cottages here and there within a small pastoral landscape or along the dirt roads leading into and–mercifully-- out of town.

The castle employees, members of the various guilds, peasant farmers, and the keepers of modest shops may have been denied the full benefit of a free education, yet their native intelligence never let them forget the fact they were living under the thumb of a tyrant. On the other hand, they were smart enough to know which side of their day-old bread was buttered --that is, if they’d been able to afford butter. Or bread.

The King was throwing a ball that night, and the net of excitement caught nearly the entire town, in imminent danger of swallowing whole the festive lure, flashing with reflected glory. Don’t get me wrong– only the most gullible and/or invincibly ignorant Cappoccian could ever truly believe that he or she would actually receive a Royal Invitation; the odds of that happening were the same as a rainbow arcing right overhead and shooting an arrow directly pointing to the fabled pot of gold. (No commoner in Cappoccia’s history had ever seen an actual pot of gold, though the current King had endowed his subjects with plenty of crocks.)

For the time being, the Cappoccians boxed up their memories of past oppression as well as anxieties over the unknown future horrors their despotic ruler might one day inflict and stored them away on an out-of-the way shelf in the collective cerebral cupboard, where, like nasty-smelling pots, they continued to seethe and boil, unwatched. In their place the people seemed to have summoned up a sensibility seldom seen in these shires: a doting attention to the appearance of the town, and a rare display of civic affection bordering on pride. The impending gala had drawn numerous visitors, to whom the Cappoccians felt deserved at least a modicum of respect in that they’d attempt to improve the town’s physical appearance, just as a normally-slovenly housewife might tidy up the joint a bit when company was expected. So the Lady of many a Cappoccian Household vigorously swept the dusty stone stoop in front of her doorway, while owners of cottages took steps to trim the exiguous patch of greenery surrounding their abodes, usually by enlisting the hearty appetites of any available livestock, of their own or that of their neighbor; thus goats were exhorted to munch on Cappoccian lawns amid urgent cries to “Chew faster!”

There was another motive behind the prettification, an idea sliding off the aforementioned mental shelf hidden within the most quixotic of Cappoccian brains. These dreamers entertained the notion that some unsuspecting traveler might– - if he were, say, bewitched– take a liking to the place and -–if his reasoning power had gone on holiday- decide to relocate in Cappoccia. A newcomer and his family settling down here might indicate another potential patron for the various shops and services in the town, thereby providing a possible boost to the local economy.

The incurable optimists were, however, far outnumbered by the ranks of realists, who nonetheless recognized a money-making opportunity when they sniffed one, virtually unprecedented in Cappoccia. Short-term commercial ventures and small businesses, literally “cottage” industries , sprang up like mushrooms after a rainstorm. A handful of Cappoccians -- who owed their relatively good fortune to Chance having looked the other way --maximized the luxury of a few square feet of land lining the yards and gardens of their domiciles by subletting them as places for visitors to park their carts, coaches, and horses for the duration of the King’s gala. Other entrepreneurs set up makeshift booths to hawk sundry souvenirs and curios in “honor” of the big event: all manner of commemorative crockery and gimcrackery, such as little-used dessert plates salvaged from dusty cupboards and hastily painted with a picture of the Palace, scale models of which were also available in one’s choice of soap or papier-mâché, and small replicas of the King’s famous telescope, roughly-carved from real wood and detailed with fake lenses. Also among the wares were handmade cards depicting scenic views of the Damned Dam and hankies embroidered with tiny scenes from the Palace Tapestry. Surprisingly, the latter racked up better than expected sales, despite rumors of a “curse” attached to the original, a result of shrewd marketing. The little squares of cloth were hawked as “great gifts” to palm off on relatives whom the potential buyer didn’t much like, though the reduced size of the items assumably watered down the allegedly benighted qualities of their legendary model.

Go-getting sellers as they were, the concessionaires were not in line to reap extraordinary profits, a mere groat or two (if they were lucky.) For months though the townsfolk had prepared for The King’s Ball-- furiously painting, whittling, sewing-- but, just like every other aspect of Cappoccian life, any ancillary benefit the Gala might accrue was beyond the commoner’s control. Indeed, the prospect of the Crown’s affluence trickling down upon them was unlikely, for as soon as the Event had been announced, Palace Agents went door-to-door issuing vending licenses, relinquished only with a pre-paid fee along with a friendly reminder that a large percentage of every sale was to be deposited directly into the King’s coffers.

This isn’t to say that a couple of enterprising-–some might say “foolhardy”–- souls didn’t attempt to circumvent the commercial restrictions. Staunch in their belief that the opportunity far outweighed the risk, these mavericks surreptitiously offered novelties not found on the list of Authorized Royal Merchandise such as miniature, i.e. nearly life-sized, effigies of HRH in the form of rag dolls, as well as chamber pots with a picture of the Royal Visage baked right into the bottom of the bowl, which was such a hot-seller, the rogue salesmen couldn’t keep up with the demand. The “Chamber Brots” (as they were dubbed) virtually flew out from under the vendors’ tables.

Amid the bustle and excitement, the slightly-faded banners and streamers, and the stained canvas tents Officer Keith patrolled. His orders entailed being on the lookout for unauthorized bear and/or bull- baiting. The purpose of the surveillance was not really a sanction against agitating innocent beasts for entertainment purposes, and certainly hadn’t arisen out of a humane enlightenment, but rather to ensure that The King would not be cheated out of his share of the action. So far Officer Keith hadn’t come across any blindfolded or tortured bears, packs of mastiffs out for blood, nor neurotic bulls.*** The closest he’d come to uncovering illicit animal acts was a display of two squirrels imprisoned in a ramshackle wicker cage where the piteous rodents were forced to chase each other around with a vague promise of an acorn prize. Since the attraction had failed to attract much of a crowd, despite the bargain price of a ha’penny a head, the would-be showman was keeping the cage covered for the nonce. Not much a crime for the diligent constable to put a stop to.

Nevertheless the guard attempted to emphasize his official presence, as he strutted through the increasingly-crowded streets. No wishy-washy “ceremonial” yeoman, he! No, Officer represented the Law, which when broken in a kingdom such as Cappoccia, packed loads of potentially painful repercussions. Every once in a while Keith would pat the intimidating sword hanging down by his side just to let everyone know that he Meant Business. Deep down, however, lurked hidden fears that even the unremarkable squirrels were getting more attention than he.

Thus was the state of was affairs in the fortnight or so that he had been appointed an Officer of the Royal Guard, soon after arriving here from the neighboring kingdom. The newly-minted guard thanked his good fortune in evading the arbitrary qualifications, hard-to-attain prerequisites, the miles of repetitious paperwork, and the inevitable red tape, for Keith’s name had jumped to the top of the waiting list through the fortuitous pulling of the proverbial strings. Having an influential relative helped, as did a few well-situated palms greased with oily coins, and there he was– - not only employed but jump-started on a career that (ostensibly) commanded respect. He only wished he had more opportunities to exercise his power.

There was nothing about this new land that changed the recent immigrant’s opinion that no matter where one goes, and no matter how much one tries to prevent it, it doesn’t take long to start accumulating enemies. Even so, and even though he’d only been in Cappoccia a short time, he wondered why he hadn’t made any friends, or at least garnered a nodding acknowledgment from his fellow guards, whom he couldn’t quite yet call his comrades. All that would change--Keith was certain--once word got around that he’d helped The King out of a (literal) jam. Later that evening, he would be able to show off tangible proof of the King’s favor-- a distinguished medal, maybe.

In the meantime, he was essentially marking time until that blessed hour when he could claim his Royal Reward. He wondered what exactly defined “nightfall” around here– - did it occur at twilight, or not until the sky was devoid of all light save for the star-twinkles and moon-rays? Keith heard himself cursing the sun for continuing to shine and stubbornly refusing to call it a day. Ah, but what was this – - a squabble among the citizenry, a possible skirmish in the making? By the Crown, he’d investigate and, if the gods were kind, break it up.

A Cappoccian entrepreneur was exchanging words with a well-dressed traveler, whose tone seemed less argumentative than amused. “Now let me see if I understand this correctly. If not, you’ll have to forgive me–this is my second language--but what you’re telling me is that this scraggly bird on a string is a trained hunter and that you are an expert falconer.”

The bedraggled native shook his head enthusiastically. “You got that right, Sir. This here’s my champion hawk who’ll catch anything you want him to for the very reasonable price of–“

“Why, that’s nothing but a pigeon with a hood on his head!” The visitor threw back his own head so vigorously his hat nearly fell off.

Before Officer Keith could intervene, the man who had avoided becoming a gull had walked away, still laughing, and the fraudulent bird-trainer moved somewhat faster in the other direction, cheating Keith out of a chance to order him to “Move along.”



*
Insert your own joke here.

**
A form of Schadenfreude called “Poverty Porn.” (Cf. Slate Magazine and Times of London)
{Added 12/8/12, when I found something better, a quote from Anthony Trollope:
"Poverty, to be picturesque, should be rural. Suburban misery is as hideous as it is pitiable."

***
In one of his appendices to Shakespeare - Major Plays, G. B. Harrison notes that the sport of bullbaiting did not end until the animal was “worried” to death.


TO BE CONTINUED

[sarah.nichole]

I must say, you're driving me nuts with this story! I just want to know what's going to happen!

Also, WHAT'S GRETCHEN'S REAL NAME? I've been wondering this the whole time. I keep hoping you'll go back to her.

One thing that I caught in part seven: Surprisingly, the latter surprisingly racked up better than expected sales, word double!

Looking forward to the next installment! :)

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King – Part Eight

While Officer Keith cased the area for opportunities to flex the muscle of the long arm of the Law on the far end of town, Tom loitered just outside the Palace Proper. Having divested himself of the suit of armor, he felt liberated -- almost naked -- for never in his life had he felt so vulnerable as he’d been inside that impregnable ensemble of steel, now lying entirely re-disassembled and jammed into the slender space under his rock hard bed, which also served as a temporary hiding place for the undelivered manila envelope. At this moment, Tom was fully engaged in shirking his duties. Tom managed to look busy with precious little effort: all it took was maintaining an earnest expression while strolling back and forth carrying a single, non-descript piece of paper. Somehow this ruse made him appear that he was engaged in an important task–- a little trick he’d picked up from the Royal Office Workers.

Though Tom’s impromptu break-time was relatively placid, just a few feet away a little teapot of trouble was brewing. A man from the builders’ guild had cornered cute little Astrid, and, as far as Tom could tell, was giving her a hard time. The pushy knave surreptitiously slipped his hands around her waist the same time he whispered in her ear.

“You gotta be out of your mind!” the chambermaid exclaimed. “Why on earth would I ever want to go up there with the likes of you?” Her voice was seasoned with equal parts trepidation and indignation, along with a soupçon of glee.

“Come on, Sweetie –- don’t you want to see the majestic view? You know you want to!” Just as the self-styled smooth-talker pulled Astrid closer, he felt somebody grab his neck and yank him backwards.

“This jerk bothering you, Astrid?” Tom didn’t wait for her answer before he gave the masher a swift kick in the rear end which sent him stumbling on his way.

“What’d you do that for?” The chambermaid hoped to sound indignant, but inwardly she was flattered that Tom sprang to protect her honor. “I can take care of myself, you know. I’m a big girl.”

“Yeah, well, you gotta watch your step with these guys. Everybody knows the corners they cut when they built that damned dam. It’s got more sand in it than all the Cappoccian oysters in the sea.”

“You’re right, Tom. But it wasn’t like the guy was Vicarian or anything. He was just a flirt. Oh! And that reminds me: thanks again for runnin’ that errand for me.”

“Huh?” What was she talking about? It took a moment to recall that he’d offered to bring Entgleisung’s memo down to the building behind the last stable. “Oh, don’t mention it,” he said, and he meant it.

“There was no way I was gonna go down there, but you know how Entgleisung is–“

“Do I ever! He’s a real —“ Tom was reluctant to use the word around mixed company, but it needed to be said. “Entgleisung is a P-r-i-“

“Don’t bother, Tom. Nobody ever taught me how to spell. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a girl.”

Oh, he’d noticed all right. Any fully-equipped male would, though this particular female was not the one who’d captured Tom’s heart. When he bent his head to whisper the objectionable word into Astrid’s ear, he caught a whiff of lavender and lye, the same scent of his true love. The comely maid, attractive as she was, only made him pine for the real thing. Tom checked the sun– maddeningly, still unset - - and even afterward, he was looking at an endless stretch of evening until the hour of the scheduled rendevous.

“Oh– - that reminds me! I know something you don’t know.” This time Astrid’s voice was sing-songy, teasing.

“That doesn’t surprise me. Most folks do.”

“It’s about Entgleisung. I think he’s up to no good.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, either.”

“I saw him around lunch time, right in the Royal Courtyard, talking to two strangers. . .” Recapping the episode,* Astrid exhibited extraordinary powers of observation down to the names of the two mercenaries as well as their respective regional accents, not to mention remembering the entire conversation verbatim, including the part about the booby-trapped throne.

“Really? And he paid them?”

“You betcha!”

“Hmmph!”

“That’s what I said, Tom!–‘Hmmph.’ “

A strange sense of urgency suddenly came upon Tom: it was as if he had felt the insistent finger of Duty tapping him on the shoulder, urging –- nay, compelling -- him to Do Something. But what? Whatever destiny required of him, he’d have to investigate further. But how? He’d run out of alibis for standing behind the arras, and let’s face it, why would he want to? Nonetheless, he cooked up an instant alibi so he could politely depart Astrid’s pleasant company, citing the need “to get back to work” or some such nonsense.

The comely lass watched him start to go one way -- pivot -- and then go the other, passing her on his way with a little wave. At the same time a wave of longing washed over her; instinctively she held her breath, but it fought back, finally crashing out with a sigh. All through her head she heard “Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom,” and it took a monumental exertion of self-control not to say the name aloud. But, utterly confounding some passersby, Astrid did speak. “Ugh! That lucky ‘Kitchen Gretchen’ - - or whatever her name is!”



Though not an abashed response to the impatience shared by the constable and the shipping-and-receiving laborer, the sun at last blushed a crimson so deep that pink blotches broke out in the surrounding sky. Once Old Sol had shimmied under the horizon, only a thin red edge remained in the sky’s complexion; the rest was assumed a gray –almost dismal-- pallor. Was this “nightfall” then? Or mere prelude? Officer Keith took a stand: “Close enough.”

All doubt had vaporized by the time he made his way down to the far-flung ancillary buildings of the castle. Shadows faded until everything became its own shadow. It grew darker and darker the farther he trod, stumbling over a rock here, stepping into some mud (or worse) there. He passed a little shed-like structure, an actual “outbuilding,” nicknamed by the locals “The Privy Council,” and proceeded onward. Then, only by his sense of smell did he realize that he had arrived at the penultimate structure, the “last” stable, the one where the Royal Farriers housed the horses with digestive problems. Behind that structure was his destination– -the “last” building.

As fervently as he had earlier besought the sun to set, Officer Keith now prayed that the moon would rise. He couldn’t see a damned thing. He could barely make out the exterior walls, unrelieved by any kind of windows, and, after walking around the building a half a dozen times, he couldn’t find anything remotely resembling a door. It all looked ominous; any chap with a lick o’ sense would’ve hightailed it out of there quicker than a hare frightened by an owl.**

But no danger lurked behind the sounds he heard: every note and syllable seemed raucous, rollicking, and merry. Laughter, brassy-and-percussive music, and the pounding stomps of jigs reverberated from inside the rickety wooden walls. Officer Keith happened to look down at the bottom of one of the walls to see a tiny sliver of light that did little to ameliorate the complete darkness in which he stood. He felt his knees sink into something squishy as he knelt down to peer through the narrow aperture.

Inside there were bright lights and big doings, as if those inside were commemorating the King’s Gala with an alternative bash of their own. Over in the open fire, the carcass of some kind of unidentifiable beast – - a boar, perhaps – - turned round and round as spritzes of roasted fat dribbled down and crackled in the flames. To Officer Keith’s great astonishment, in the middle of the great room was a circular path, around which a pony was whipped into following, with the extra burden of carrying a – - monkey!– - on his back whose role was to howl and vex the poor equine into a state of quaking hysteria.

What Officer Keith found most remarkable were the celebrants themselves– - the human element, if you will– although he wasn’t quite certain that the creatures upon whom he was spying qualified for that classification. There was not a regular-sized man among them; each of them standing erect in that flame-lit room was as big as a giant, mere inches shy of scraping the ceiling. (Their observer was struck by the odd notion that if someone were to invent an athletic competition requiring extraordinarily tall players to sink a spherical object into a high-hung basket, these were the fellows who would excel at it.)

Those seated at the lengthy, rough-hewn tables had torsos the size of hundred-year oaks and shoulders wider than a yoke for four oxen. Officer Keith was gratified to spot a small contingent of females who appeared to be normal in size, more earthly in manner. Two or three wenches, whose pouring talents were apparently exceeded by their more-than-generous voluptuousness, flitted among the huge revelers; each stein they filled came with a complimentary smile or giggle, or, when the circumstances called for it, a definitive slap across the kisser. Officer Keith was quite impressed by the barmaids’ apparent fearlessness; it bothered him that he – -an Officer of the Crown expected to be immune to intimidation– -felt like a sack of grain vigorously shaken to extract every last kernel.

The fear nearly overpowered him, despite the fact that nowhere in the cavernous barn did he see a single weapon; if the large men were maintaining an armory it was artfully concealed. Then again, it was highly possible that they had no use for your fancy rapier, your arquebus, or dag. Why should they, when they could crush a man with their bare hands, or– - what was up with those sharp horns -- so intertwined with their long hair,itself commingling with their abundant beards – - that the double prongs could have been protruding not from their helmets but from their very heads?

Without any introduction a red-haired member of their group nimbly hopped (despite his heft) upon the center of the main table and then began to warble with a surprising tenor voice one would more likely hear echoing across the verdant hills of Eire:

From way beyond Ultima Thule
we were born harsh and unruly.
Living a life colder than cold
made us mean and bolder than bold.

Got no use for armor nor mesh;
no knife e’er forged can pierce our flesh.
You there, fool, want to pick a fight?
Be smart for once -- stay home tonight.

Nobody here’s your av’rage guy.
Forgot our manners, ‘n’ we ain’t shy.
We’re allergic to fear and none of us cry.
So in case ---just in case--
you’re wondering why. . .yi. . .yi. . .yi ...yi–

Within moments, the entire company joined in, in impeccable four-part harmony:

Sudden crashes don’t make us jump.
We will repel anything you dump.
Your hot oil’s just a sticky lump--
we’re tough!

We got grit and we got moxie.
So clever we outsly the foxy,
and think outside the vandals’ box-ie--
we’re tough!

Then, another solo from the redhead, for the bridge:

A voyage ‘cross an angry ocean
is just a Sunday pleasure cruise.
We keep our spirits a-floatin’
With vicious plans and rot-gut booze.

Reprise of the entire group, con brio, with swaying torsos and swinging steins:

A nightly raid upon an abbey
gets us all greedy, wild, and grabby.
Our pillaging’s nothin’ shabby--
We’re tough!

A town that’s ripe for some sacking
ain’t got time to do no packing.
It’s all over but the hacking--
We’re tough!

Bringin’ it on home, one-by-one, each line half-chanted, half-sung:

We’ll invade ‘n’ pounce ‘n’ always play rough.

We’ll seize your treasures and all o’ your stuff.

We’ll ignore all local lawmen’s rebuffs.

We’ll never listen if they huff and puff.

We’ll answer back all growling loud and gruff,

We’ll scream ’n’ yell ‘n’ comment off the cuff

Finally, tutti for the coda:

Be-cause we are-
Oh, yeah we are--
Tough!

The choir’s presentation was immediately followed by louder laughter, thunderous foot-stamping, audible back-slapping, and stentorian summons to the waitresses to fill their crude goblets with even more alacrity, in order to slake the mighty thirst left in the wake of spirited song.

The noise made Officer Keith’s ears throb, but even above the din he heard an unexpected sound– - like wooden wheels turning. It was a rolling barrel, en route to the building, coaxed along by someone who looked as if he belonged with the gang inside. His arrival backed Officer Keith into a dilemma – should he make himself scarce? Or should he be a brave soldier and make himself known, thereby expediting the reward process? The barrel-roller answered for him.

“Beat it! Nothing to see here. Move along.”

Hey, those are my lines, Officer Keith thought. Instead he got to his feet and said: “I’m here on official business.”

“Not here, you ain’t. “ He yanked a beefy thumb toward the doorless barn. “ ‘S for Vicarians only, and from the looks of you, you ain’t no Vicarian. No admittance.”

“I understand that, uh –Sir. Could you possibly let me speak to your supervisor, uh, I mean, the man in charge.”

The Vicarian stared at Officer Keith for a long time. At last, he announced, “I’ll see if the Chieftain is busy. I ain’t making no promises, mind ya. Wait here.” With that, the savage pulled a near-invisible rope, which lifted a section of the wall allowing access inside -- so that’s where it was! The secret entrance instantly revealed a set of descending steps and a slash of light that nearly blinded Keith, conditioned by the total blackness. “By the way, you got crap on your knees.” With that, the Vicarian rolled the barrel down the stairs while deftly pulling the “door“ behind him.

“Wait here” –another line stolen from Keith’s repertoire. If he were expected to wait until “the cows came home,” he’d wager the rent that they’d be fun-loving bovines who relished staying out late. But it was just as well Officer Keith hadn’t been invited in for a drink; he didn’t have the slightest idea of what to order.***

At last Keith heard booming, not explosions but the pounding of a pair of enormous feet
ascending the stairs. Even though Officer Keith knew it was coming, when the hidden door was opened, the sound made him jump. The sight of the apparent chief was likewise startling; those Vicarian horns looked even more menacing, up close and personal.

The Chieftain stuck his face right into that of Officer Keith and squinted. “Well?”

“Uh, the King sent me?”

The Vicarian leader’s laugh – from a mouth as big as that of a small whale -- smelled beery, fruity, and fetid. “What makes you think we answer to your King? Ha, ha– that’s rich, but then so is he. But do we do his bidding? Uh-uh.”

“But why was I told to report here?”

The Chieftain spit a unidentifiable glob into the darkness. “Beats me. But, ah, once in a while we— well, let’s say we wash his hands and he washes ours.” Even in the darkness
the Vicarian’s hands looked as if they hadn’t seen soap and water since the Last Crusade.
“Gimme the paperwork.” he said, wiggling his fingers back and forth.

When Officer Keith admitted that he had nothing written, just an oral agreement to come on down and pick up his reward at nightfall, the Chieftain laughed so hard he bent over. “Then I can’t help ya. Sorry.”

“But what about my reward? They promised me!”

The Chieftain grabbed Keith by the neck, not as a prelude to violence, but almost affectionately. “Listen, Kid, you can’t believe everything anybody ever tells you. Especially that little twerp up there.” He jabbed the air with his index finger, vaguely pointing into the distance, in the approximate direction of the palace. “You know what we call ‘im around here? ‘Pants on fire.’ “

“Pants?”

“Er, whatchamallem. Breeches. Trunk hose. Slops. If the King’s wearin’ ‘em, they’re burnin’. ”


*
The Lyin’ King, Part 5

**
I would have preferred a better homespun analogy, but Dan Rather never returned my calls.

***
“Lemonade – - in a dirty glass!” (This Bob Hope line from The Road to Utopia once served as an “answer” on Jeopardy!)


TO BE CONTINUED

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King – Part 9

Like cats on the prowl, a couple of opportunists flitted among indisputably distinguished guests at the King’s Ball. The gentlemen were kinsmen, one a wide-eyed visitor from the hinterland, the other a Cappoccian native who fancied himself as worldly-wise and thus relished the chance to lord it over his less sophisticated relative by showing him the unfamiliar silken ropes. Such a wealth of experience had prepared him to offer a bit of advice: “Be sure to show the proper deference. Remember–if it weren’t for our positions in Cappoccian high society, we wouldn’t be here.”

His companion’s eyes grew wider. “Really? That’s surprising. I’m always hearing how His Majesty enjoys rubbing shoulders with the masses.”

“Nah. That’s just a lie, a myth spun by the Royal P.R. staff. To tell you the truth, the stuck-up pipsqueak would rather die than hobnob with the great unwashed.”

“No!”

“You’d better believe it, Cuz. Incidentally, your codpiece looks a little askew.”

Turning his back, the newcomer discreetly corrected his wardrobe malfunction. No attendee at the ball wanted to be caught in a less-than-perfect sartorial condition, for both young men were dressed to the nines, tens, maybe elevens, so eager they were to catch influential eyes. The right fists of both gentlemen carried a little smudge of ink and, as further certification, they carried upon their persons the credentials of a bona fide Royal Invitation as insurance against the potentially embarrassing situation of being asked to prove the legitimacy of their presence. So far, no one had asked to see any such proof.

For the two upstarts the most important thing was to see and, especially, to be seen. The most dazzling of sights was the Royal Ballroom itself. On days upon which no event was scheduled it was merely a big old drafty room whose sole purpose seemed to provide a place for the overworked Astrid to wield her shaggy feather duster. But on this special night the cavernous hall had been done up to resemble an underwater wonderland: wavy white and aquamarine streamers undulated across the walls, where papier-maché fish in a multitude of colors, sizes, and shapes bobbed in all directions with the slightest movement of air, also animating the thousands of tiny transparent bubbles hung on nearly-invisible strings. One misfit in the maritime decor was a prominent hand-lettered sign:


MISSING!
One (1) Set of Royal Armor Belonging to The King.
Anyone with any information of
its whereabouts should report it
IMMEDIATELY!
No questions asked.
P.S. There’s a reward!


The live music attempted to underscore the theme, but the repertoire was limited, once the guests heard “The Sailor’s Hornpipe” and a few other salt-tinged ditties. The young social climber surreptitiously covered his ears. “I say, dear Cousin, whatever happened to the legendary ‘silence of the seas,’ aye?”

That question hadn’t occurred to the out-of-town relative who could not contain his excitement over the evening’s entertainment. “My stars! The artist is remarkable, a virtuoso if I’ve ever seen one!” he gushed, neglecting to add tha where he came from, the closest thing to music was the discordant clangs of shuffling cows or the occasional whistling shepherd. By that criterion, the evening’s entertainment ranked several steps up the scale: a single musician already working up a sweat in the simultaneous attempt to play the sackbut, the lute, and the tambour, the effort aided by an elaborate system of pulleys and wires, not to mention every available limb, activated into a frenzy. Though the product was not quite an assault on the ears, it did bring to mind the musical sense of the word “strains,” but to be charitable, the performer earned applause for the ingenuity and resourcefulness resonating through the noise.

“That’s D.J. Harold, the One-Man Band,” the native said. “He scored the gig because HRH is too bloody cheap to spring for a five-piece combo, let alone a dance orchestra. But you won’t see anyone take a spin around the floor, at least not until the King gets here and has the First Dance. That’s going to be a while – - he loves being fashionably late.”

On this particular evening, the cause of The King’s signature tardiness was more than personal whim, for he and his trusted advisor were still engaged in drafting a proclamation to wage war against a peace-loving neighboring country. Although the work on the policy had begun shortly after lunch and the Royal Bath, they were still hashing out the logistics very late in the day.

Around that same time, a low-level castle worker spotted Tom on one of his umpteenth trips up the interior staircase. “They really got you going there, Tom. Are ya workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” *

“Aw, you know how it is, Morty. Every time You-Know-Who throws one of these shindigs, folks don’t know if it’s The Royal Birthday or what. But every last soul in the kingdom sends over a present. Just to be on the safe side, ya know?”

“And who would blame ‘im, Tom? Well, take it easy.”

“You too, Mort.” Tom, of course, had no intention of slacking off. In fact, he did the opposite of what a garden-variety laborer would do under normal conditions in order to conserve energy for the task of toting a huge heap of cumbersome and heavy packages up the steps. Instead Tom double-timed the series of trips to hasten the consecutive arrivals at the door of the Royal Chamber, where he’d dawdle over dropping off the loot in order to maximize the eavesdropping potential. The fragments of conversation which Tom had been able to overhear were like shrapnel from a bomb -- as if he could see at his feet the lit wick of a virtual powder keg growing shorter and shorter as the actual pile of gifts gradually grew higher.

“. . .as your infinite wisdom has shown you, Sire, the majority of the military has been deployed securing our borders, and —“

“And a heck of a job they’re doing there, right? Last year they didn’t let one Cappoccian commoner excape!” The King plunged deeply into thought. “It never creases to amaze us why anyone would want to defart from this heaven on earth, and its most beloved drooler!”

“A ponderous question, indeed, Sire, but the problem at hand is that we simply do not have enough personnel to stage an full-scale invasion.”

With a wrinkled brow, The King gnawed on that conundrum for a such a length of time that Tom almost considered it a natural break in the conversation and thus the cue to go back downstairs for another load. Suddenly the Royal Fingers snapped. “We’ve got it! How about an all volume-teer harmy?”

Against his better judgement, Entgleisung disagreed. “Forgive me, oh most wise Majesty, but that wouldn’t do. Your average Cappoccian male is less likely to take up arms willingly than he is to invite a dragon over for dinner.”

But they’d put a monster higher up on the guest list than they’d put you, you filthy traitor, Tom thought as he placed a set of silky napkins atop the increasingly high hill of gifts.

The King stroked his receding chin. “Hmm. Well, suppose there were to be a whatchamacallit, an inventive?”

“Incentive?”

“Yeah. We’ll tell ‘em we’ll reward ‘em with a nice chunk of waterfront property in Genitalia.”

Entgleisung nixed the notion as diplomatically as could. “I’m sorry, Sire, but there’s not enough land in all of Gentletralia for the minimum number of troops required.”

“But can’t they take turns? A couple of weeks in a beach house for one buncha soldiers, a couple of other weeks for others, and so on. It would be like a thingamajig, you know? Times squares!”

Again the chief advisor shook his head.

“Oh, we suppose you’re right, Entgleisung. It would open up a clan of worms when they all start flickering over who’s gonna get to go in August and who got stuck with February and so forth. It would indict brother against brother. Probably set off all kinds of inter-nectarine violets. “ Tom overheard the King say this while setting down a crate of oranges, expensively exported from the Holy Land.

“Indeed it would, Sire. I’m afraid an all-volunteer army is out of the question,” said Entgleisung. "That leaves us with only one option, your Majesty.”

“What are you saying, Entgleisung– - conniption?”

“Conscription.”

“Don’t correct us. We are not going to tell you again! Now, if the only way Cappoccia can abstain that gorgeous Genitalian beachfront property is by farce, and if the only way to build up the harmy is by daffing people, then-- all right, okay, you win.” **

“ Thank you, Sire, I dearly appreciate it. First thing tomorrow we’ll launch the National Draft. Now all that’s left to do is to come up with a plausible pretext for declaring war.”

“Nonsense! We need a pretense like a doughnut needs a hole in the head. Our people adorn us, and they will marzipan to the very grates of heydays if we, their beloved crueler, command them! “

“Indubitably so, Your Wisdom. Still, if we mandate–uh, ask–the Cappoccian people to surrender the lives of their husbands and sons to the battlefield, they will demand a damned good reason.“

“How about the good of their country– -ain’t that good enough?”

“Certainly, Sire, but the case can be made stronger with specifics, something that they’ll easily buy. Asking them to swallow a capricious causa belli --"

"No need to bring up the Royal Stomach, Entgleisung--"

"--a specious reason for war would lead to widespread anger, ultimately triggering insurrection or –forgive me, Sire -- a revolution! They’d rush to depose you, my King-- God forbid! And put someone else in your place--” Just as Entgleisung was stating his prediction, a Great Idea was manifested by a strange illumination flashing across both of his faces. It looked to Tom as a burning candle had suddenly appeared above the conniver’s head.***

“Not to worry, Entgleisung. In our infantile imagination we’ll come up with something. When it’s time to read the Royal Ejaculation, we’ll just wing it.” The King picked up an elaborate quill made of a brilliantly multi-colored feather of a large, extinction-bound bird. At the bottom of the long scroll under the word “Rex” he scratched “B.M.” **** “Now–oh, where is that bloody Royal Seal?”

Minutes were lost in fruitless search until it finally dawned on His Majesty that the ink stamp containing the Royal Seal had been temporarily moved to the Royal Cloak Room, where, damp with nearly-indelible ink, the embosser had been employed to stamp the hands of arriving guests, thus establishing that their presence had been acknowledged and thereby allowing them to leave and re-enter the castle for the duration of the Ball. “Well, don’t just stand there like plotted pants– go down there and fetch it.”

“I could save His Majesty his precious time if I just took the document down and stamped it myself. Then I’ll proceed directly to the Royal Ball Room.”

“If you think We would trust the Royal Seal in anyone else’s mitts you got another think comin’, Entgleisung. If there’s any stampeding around here, it’ll be done by us and us alone.”

“But, Sire, your esteemed guests are wondering when His Majesty will make his Royal Entra–“

“Enough! Our philosophistry is to prologue the expectoration to make our Royal Entrails all the more sweet. Let ‘em wait. “

On his way out of the Royal Chamber, Entgleisung couldn’t stifle the urge to mutter under his breath."Stupid demented little fool! Can’t handle the Royal Seal, can I? But it’s okay for the cloakroom riffraff to slobber all over it and physically touch the hands of their betters, isn’t it. That’s all gonna change once I run things around here–Hey, what are you doing here?”

Tom dropped the substantial ham he’d been carrying. “What does it look like? I’m Sinter Klaas delivering Yuletide cheer.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Boy. If you want to get ahead in this business you must learn how to prioritize. All this junk can be brought up here any time– meanwhile the ice sculpture sits melting in the lobby.”

Tom clicked his heels and snapped a mock salute. “Hokey-dokey, Herr Blunderbuss. I’m on it.” On his way down the steps he whistled the “By You” song *** but stopped, mid-note, as if he had forgotten something. “Oh, by the way, how’s the little fella’s backside?” he asked and continued on his way.

“What? How do you know about tha– Get back here! Immediately!” Entgleisung sputtered, but Tom was long gone.

The man walking through the door was greeted by a vision so heavenly that he devoutly believed he had arrived at the Pearly Gates rather than the earth-bound Palace Cloakroom. Surely the figure behind the counter was an angel, no doubt. With the exception of the beautiful sight of her, he was virtually blind and hearing nothing but hallelujahs from a celestial choir, deaf.

“Sir? I beg your pardon, Sir– may I take your cloak?”

“Huh? Um, I–“ Bewitched and (pleasantly) bothered, Officer Keith was only bewildered*** by the fact that he’d forgotten why he had come.

“Or did you want your hand stamped? “

“What? Oh, I’m not a guest, I mean, I’m not here for the ball, uh–“ Pull yourself together,old bean, he told himself. You’re supposed to be a professional. “I’m truly sorry, dear Lady. If you please, Miss, the name is, is–“ Oh come on! Surely you haven’t forgotten your own damn name. “-is Shirley, er, Keefe. I mean, Keith, th-th. An associate with The King’s guard.”

“Ooh. I can see that, judging by your uniform. And I must say, you cut quite a dashing figure in it, Officer Keith.”

Oh, God--with his legs all covered with crap! Oh please don’t let her look at my knees, he prayed,as well as hoping her olfactory sense was temporarily blocked.

“Then I take it you’re here on official business.”

“That I am, Miss, though I purely wish our first meeting had occurred under more serenely social circumstances.” Smooth one, boy. Smooth. “Be that as it may, I’m looking for Sir Entgleisung.”

The angel threw back her head in lusty laughter. “Hah! I knew it! I just knew that old buzzard would get himself arrested one day, and glory be, that day is finally here!” She took the volume of her voice down a notch, adopting a more confidential tone. “What did you catch him doing? Rifling the palace cookie jar? Drowning cats? Come on, you can tell little old me!”

“Oh goodness, no – nothing like that a’tall. Just a little personal issue, not a criminal matter,” he clarified, then adding with a wink. “Sorry to disappoint!” And he meant it too. He’d tell her anything she wanted to hear to make her happy.

“Oh, I’m not worried, Officer Keith. That pruneface will get his comeuppance one day or my name ain’t Astrid.”

Astrid – it sounded like stars.

“I don’t know where he is at the moment, but he’s always sneaking around. You sure you really want to find him? Uh-oh.” Suddenly her voice dropped down to a whisper. “Speak of the Dev–“

Entgleisung stepped into the cloakroom and stopped short. He was not one to believe in ghosts, but the sight of Officer Keith, looking very much alive, challenged his vaunted rationality. When he looked behind the counter and saw Astrid, he put two and two together and came up with the sum of anger. “You shirker! Why did you fail to take that note down to–“ He lunged at her, but not swiftly enough for she had already sprang out from behind the counter and sped away – - no mean feat, considering that for the King’s Ball she had been required to wear a mermaid costume.



*
A line so overused over the centuries that it probably ceased being funny round about 1842. Perhaps it wasn’t yet a cliché when Morty said it, maybe for first or second time in recorded history.

**
A candle, because Edison’s light bulb still hadn’t been invented. The same with animated cartoons and their motifs.

***
Song(s) not found on DJ Harold’s playlist.

****
Although Brot the Magnificent possesses many character flaws, The King is not really responsible for the scatological connotation of the Royal Signature. In Neil Simon’s The Odd Couple, when Oscar Madison finds on his pillow a handwritten list of grievances from his roommate, he’s shocked to see the closing line: “F.U.” until he realizes that the offensive letters are merely Felix Unger’s initials.



TO BE CONTINUED

[sarah.nichole]

The mermaid costume at the end made me snort. Love it! Keep it coming!

:)

[Hawkman]

Hi Auntie, just dropped by to let you know I've caught up and am eager for more :D

Live and be well - H

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King – Part Ten

For centuries philosophers have argued about many fantastic things, among them the existence of magic, but there was no denying the fact that no wizard had ever been around when anybody ever really needed one. Such was the situation in which the newest member of Cappoccia’s Finest found himself, incapable of movement and purely wishing that an accommodating sorcerer would suddenly appear to slice him in two.

Had that been the case, a bifurcated Officer Keith would have had the supernatural ability to mount a double-sided chase, one half to track down his promised reward, the other to pursue the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His mind backtracked a bit, realizing that confronting Entgleisung was far less appealing than chasing after the incomparable Astrid. Mentally he scratched out the 50-50 split, replacing it with an uneven division of one-quarter, three quarters – - oh, what the devil – - a puny eighth overridden by a vital seven-eighths chunk of himself. In truth, more than a mere fraction of himself tugged toward the girl whom he desired with his full mind, his entire body, and his whole heart.

With the sound of footsteps coming approaching the Royal Cloakroom, reality jerked him out of his reverie, when he heard the whisper, soft as a breeze in spring. “Pssst! Is the coast clear?” Officer Keith saw a figure creep behind the counter and slowly emerge, gradually displaying a soft puff of auburn curls covered by a white cap, then a pair of sparkling sapphire-like orbs in the place where ordinary mortals had eyes. When she stood straight up in full view, she placed one of her rough yet delicate hands on her chest, still out of breath, her escape still fresh. “Whew! That was a close one.”

Like some dramatist’s deus ex machina swooping down at the last minute to save the day (if not the play), the solution to Officer Keith’s dilemma had been taken out of his hands. No longer “torn,” he felt like his old self again; apparently so had she. In the time she’d been away, she had ditched the mermaid get-up, having changed back into the regulation Royal Maid’s uniform, a dark dress with a respectable hemline*covered with a pristine white pinafore. “You know what? I just learned something, Officer Keith,” Astrid said. “It’s really, really hard to try to run in fins!”

Tom, meanwhile, was experiencing a tiny epiphany of his own. There’s something about servile work that irks the mind. Whenever the body is in the full throes of a physically demanding, repetitive task, the thinking area of the brain compensates itself against neglect, even if the only available mental activity to assuage its boredom is outlandish speculation. Halfway up the stairs leading to the Royal Palace Ballroom, Tom’s imagination clicked its assertion, filling his head with scenes of the partially-built Pyramids with hordes of enslaved laborers doing the impossible: hauling massive rectangular stones across the desert sand and attempting to lift these bricks-- each the weight of a small planet– -up in the air under the oppressive Egyptian sun. Simply toting blocks of ice from the lobby to the Ballroom didn’t seem so onerous in comparison. During one trip, however, when Tom reached the corridor at the top of the steps, he allowed himself a short breather. Although just a few feet short of the Ballroom, he set down the current ice block. When he reached into his pocket for the rag he used to wipe his brow, a little slip of paper tumbled out and skidded down the hall.

Back in the Royal Chamber, The King was boiling with a mix of emotions – - positively fuming over the fact that Entgleisung hadn’t yet returned with the Royal Seal, while equally a-bubble at the prospect of making his Grand Entrance at the Ball he was throwing in his own honor, with the latter option inching toward the front burner. His Majesty had convinced himself beyond all doubt that he cut quite the regal figure in his classic look: in a doublet of burgundy satin trimmed with ermine and upon his head a stately crown, ever-so-slightly tilted at a jaunty angle. “Ah, the very sight of us will send the people into schmeer angst-acy!” he announced. “Deriding them from such a magnificent sight would be a sin! To prognosticate one moment longer would be like torture to ‘em!” After he clapped his hands for a page to alert D.J. Harold of his imminent arrival, he rolled up the proclamation (sans seal) and tucked it under his arm like an umbrella. It was time– at last- to waddle toward the ballroom.

Down in the cloakroom, the infatuated guard was struggling with his words. “No, I’m glad, Astrid. Truly! But aren’t you afraid that Entgleisung will return as well?“

“But I had to come back. When the party breaks up, all the swells will be looking for their wraps and lids. Who else is gonna know what goes to who? Whom, I mean.”

Keith bowed his head and scratched his brow. “But isn’t it dangerous? Besides facing the wrath of Hatchet Face, there are all kinds of perils right outside. Pickpockets poised to steal your lagniappes.”

“My what?”

“Gratuities. Tips from the– the ‘swells.’ “

Astrid threw her head back and lustily guffawed. When she was able to talk, she explained, “It’s against the Law. Every last ha’penny of discretionary income has to go to You-Know-Who. Anybody crazy enough to slip me so much as a farthing would be thrown right down in the dungeon. And I’d be in there with ‘im!”

“But what about threats to your virtue? Let me help you get home safely.”

“Oh, don’t go worrying about me. I can take care of meself.” Leaning forward on the counter, Astrid put an elbow on the counter and cradled her chin in her hand.“Gee, you’re a really sweet guy. Nice and polite to me, like I was a lady instead of a wench with a crummy job. Nobody ever talks to me the way you do. Except Tom–“

“ ‘Tom’?” asked Keith, who, already smarting from one of Cupid’s arrows stuck in his side, felt a quick twinge of pain from an unseen, green-eyed monster.

“Yeah–-from shipping and receiving? I’m sure you’ve seen ‘im around– big, funny guy with these huge musc–“ Astrid saw a veil of disappointment beginning to descend on Keith’s face “--but he’s nice to everybody, not just me. Always doing favors for people. Like today old Snake Eyes ordered me to bring a note down to the Vicarians – can you imagine?–but Tom offered to deliver it for me, and –“

Keith shot a quick glance to the door and then back at Astrid. “Listen, as much as hate to this, I have to leave you alone for a moment. You going to be all right?”

“Of course! I’m a big g–“



Approaching the Royal Ballroom foyer, two Entgleisungs briskly strode down the corridor, one the actual advisor in the (emaciated) flesh, the other an exact copy of himself-- from the mushroom cap on his head down to the shapeless black fabric touching the tops of his toes–reflected in the highly polished palace floor, upon which the most deliberate inspection would never find a stray speck of dust nor a single strand of a cobweb. When Entgleisung spotted one tiny object out-of-place on the pristine marble, he stopped short.
“What a sty!” he said.** “That will change when I take over. This dump is going to get a scrubbing from top to bottom on Day One!” He bent down and picked up the offensive folded slip of paper and stuck it in the pocket of his black robe with the intention of disposing it in the proper receptacle later.

Temporarily laying aside his elaborate system of musical mechanics, D.J. Harold raised a simple trumpet and let her rip. What emanated from the lengthy horn was not, however, the hoped-for flourish but rather a flatly flatulent blaaaat. With that, the King joined the Royal Ball, already in progress.

Immediately the guests sprang to their feet, turned to the monarch, and started to applaud, some dropping their drinks and snacks in the process. Their host soaked up the adulation for the customary length of time ( and then some). The party-goers kept clapping as The King tucked the rolled-up parchment between his knees to free his hands. Finally, he raised his Royal Arms and with palms downward, gradually made a pushing motion, as if he were attempting to flatten clothes into a valise in order to get it tightly closed.

“Thank you for your warm inception. We are benighted to see all of you here this evening at our sore array. We’re afraid that we have some bad news: Your King will not be able to join you on the dance floor tonight.“ Catching the hint, the crowd let out a collective groan. “No, no – - it’s not that bad. It’s just that Your Beloved Monarch sustenanced a slight perjury to our vertical bra this afternoon.” This time there was a smattering of gasps designed to express sympathy, a few convincingly so.

The Cappoccian native leaned toward his country cousin and whispered into his ear. “Back injury, my foot! It’s probably the old lues kicking up again.”

“No need to worry, your monarch will be fit as a fritter anon. Feel free to trip over the lights periphrastic yourselves and partake of the combustibles. We have quite a rumble of surprises in store a little later on in the vestiferies. So stick around,” The King announced, adding, “And now, Mr. My Strobe, please!” – an order which sent D.J. Harold scrambling for his pulleys and wires.

Meanwhile, bounding up the palace staircase, a frantic Officer Keith conveniently ran into just the man he wanted to see -- not the man he originally wanted to see before his priorities changed. As he spotted Tom bending down to pick up a massive block of ice, he toyed with the notion of kicking him right in the backside. Instead the guard reached up and, with considerable effort, grabbed a massive shoulder; it required an even more strenuous attempt to yank him around. Keith aimed for Tom’s mug with his left, but failing to make contact, he wound up punching the air.

“Easy there, Officer! “ This time Tom put his hands on both of Keith’s shoulders, less to restrain him but to calm him down. “ Now, what’s the problem, fella?”

“You’re the problem, you thief! I was supposed to get a reward – from HRH himself! And you stole it from me!”

“Oh– you’re talking about that note! Geez, I forgot all about it. I might still have it on me. Hold on. ” Tom searched all of the pockets of his slops and scratchy burlap tunic – empty as usual.


“You better come up with it fast, or you’re a dead man.”

“And so are you,” said Tom with a smirk.

With that, Keith went for his sword but Tom seized his arm with a hefty grip, and flipped him off his feet. After a safe interval, he picked him up and sat him on one of the steps. "Don’t tell me you actually went down to that old barn at nightfall! Let me ask you
something, did you hear anything like smiths casting a medal for you in there? See anybody putting gold coins in a bag? Come off it, you can’t be that dense! Judas Priest, Man– these are Vicarians! They’ll tear you to pieces as soon as look at you.”

“Well – - that’s not the point. That slip of paper was for me!”

“It was your death warrant! “

Officer Keith looked stricken, speechless, so at that point Tom filled him in on all he had overheard about Entgleisung’s attempted treason and The King’s nasty little habit of playing fast and loose with the truth.

“Face it, Man-- I saved your life.”

The guard sighed, stood up, and looked at Tom for a while. Finally, he offered him his hand, and Tom shook it. “I guess, perhaps, we could consider ourselves comrades.”

“Sure thing, Pal!” Tom said. “There’s an old saying, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ “

At such affairs, it was customary for the host to “mingle,” even if he happened to be the monarch. So the King toddled here and there across the ballroom to greet the guests, all the while making sure that they kept their distance.

The Cappoccian native poked his cousin in the ribs as the King approached. “My, what fine swarths of young manhood you are! You know, you two are in for some real treatises tonight! Your Beloved Drooler will read an official ejaculation, followed by a visceral exhibition the likes you’ve never seen! And that’s not all!” added the King with a reasonable facsimile of a wink, “The Royal Chef deforms us that he’s repaired a special desert, a column merry masterpiece! Meantime, enjoin a little wine. Try the whore’s drawers.” With that, he clapped his hands to signal a waiter, and moved on.

As soon as The King was out of earshot, the sophisticate remarked, “Hmmph!. He never mentioned my father’s gift, after he went through all the trouble and expense in having it delivered personally. “

“You mean that acreage with the buried treasure? Quite a generous gesture,” said the country cousin. “Well, maybe HRH hasn’t gotten around to opening the presents yet. He must be a busy guy.” He pointed to something on the seafood platter before him. “These look interesting. What are they ?”

“Smelt.”

“I know that. But what do you call ‘em?”





*Astrid’s attire is not exactly a “uniform,” but serviceable just the same, yet quite unlike the popular notion of the “French Maid’s” outfit, once a stock costume of bawdy burlesque skits and in recent years seen on superannuated Halloween revelers; the ensemble would be completely impractical if worn while scrubbing floors (unless one finds the sight of chapped knees alluring.)

**
A condemnation familiar to those who are accustomed to overly fastidious and petulant micro-managers in their own households – - am I right, Ladies?



TO BE CONTINUED

[MANICHAEAN]

Dear Aunty
Each part gets better, but excuse me as I’m still catching up. Part 3:

There are aspects of humour here that even your discerning eye missed. This is due probably to our respective usage of the English language either side of the Pond. Thus for example, the word ‘boner,” as opposed to “bona,” was used by the late great English comedian Kenneth Williams in the 1950’s on a radio show called “Around the Horne,” in which he played one of two gays (Julian & Sandy) and everything that was good and appreciated, was “boner!” Nobody knew what is was, sexual tolerance was at a gestation stage, and the word was both evocative and open to speculation. In fact, it might have been something that Wolf Larsen would have appreciated as “non-traditionalist,” if he had been born.

Your switch / interface in styles between mediaevalist and gritty (Bronx?) humour is unique. All in all, a thoroughly good read. Keep it up.
Warm regards
M.

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King – Part Eleven

A few moments after Officer Keith abruptly left the Royal Cloakroom, he had also left a quiet void in the atmosphere, permeated with an unnatural, if not eerie, desolation. It was an amorphous sense of emptiness, nothing anybody could grasp in one’s hands.* “I wonder what’s keeping him?” The little chambermaid asked the question aloud, its echo startling her, making her jump. Astrid shuffled the stack of coat-check cards, drummed her fingers on the counter, started humming bits of the “By You” song, but nothing she did served to quicken the pace of that old turtle Time. She hopped off the stool, paced around the room for a moment, sat down again, and sighed. “This is ridiculous!” she said. “I don’t know what’s come over me.” There was absolutely no reason to be scared – she was, after all, “a big girl,” but what was this? Not “loneliness,” no – - if anything, she lived for the rare and fleeting moments of precious solitude when nobody barked out orders and jerked her around. But it was different this time.

“He should‘ve been back by now.” Despite Astrid’s bitterness toward her tormentors, she seldom succumbed to the temptation to slough off her responsibilities.“Hope he’s all right.“ Leaving her appointed station, in this case the Royal Cloakroom, was all but unthinkable. “Maybe I should go look for hi–“ She didn’t even finish the thought when she bounded over the counter. “I won’t go far, close enough to the Palace so if anybody leaving early wants his wrap, I’ll still be able to hear the poundin’ on the door.” Digging into the pocket of her pinafore apron, she checked to see that she still had the key, but just before she locked the door, she dashed inside and grabbed the afterthought. “It wouldn’t do to leave that behind,” she said, as she shoved it into the deep pocket of her dark dress,rigged out as it was with multi-sized compartments for various cleaning tools. “Just my luck some jamoke would steal the Royal Seal and start cranking out phony proclamations,” she thought, though the fact of the matter was that under the current regime, “real” and “counterfeit” meant pretty much the same thing.


Upstairs in the Royal Ballroom, an elegantly serene lady stood near the wall where she observed the festivities with quiet amusement. With little regard for social protocol, a female guest three-quarters “in her cups” and, given her provocative attire, half-way out of them, staggered right up to the gentlewoman to announce, “I’m trying to shedoosh your hushband.”

The sedate lady raised her eyebrows slightly, then with a sweet smile that was one hundred percent sincere, leaned a little closer to the interloper and asked in a stage whisper, “Are you having any luck?” It was uncertain whether the inebriate had heard the good-natured gibe, for two guards had already restrained her, but the lady stopped them before they could discreetly remove the tipsy dame from the premises. “Give her a steaming brew of those ground Arabica beans. It might help ease some of the discomfort that will vex her tomorrow morning. And see that she arrives home safely.”

The little episode did not escape the notice of the two upstarts, prompting the country cousin to remark, “Get a load of her.”

“Aw, she’s just a lush –“ The sophisticate waved his hand as if he were swatting a fly.

“No, I mean the svelte one in the luscious mauve gown.”

“ Why, that’s Geduld herself.”

“The Royal Consort? Who would know? There’s nary a speck o’ gold or a jewel on her.”

“She’s yoked to the tightest skinflint in Christendom, what did you expect? No wonder she’s a little short on the bling. Anyway, I hear she’s not much for accessorizing. One assumes that tiny tiara made it to the top of her head only after considerable coaxing from the ladies-in-waiting.”

With a style combining decorum and bonhomie, Geduld gently swung her goblet in the air as if to make an all-around toast. Turning to the gentleman at her side, she asked, “What did you say this was? Mulled wine?” The deferential gentleman at her side bowed and nodded. Her ladylike sip instantaneously generated a wince,unsuccessfully suppressed, and a bit of constructive criticism: “It needs more thought.”

“And who is that person standing by her side? He seems overly solicitous, wouldn’tcha say?”

“That would be Sir Valentine Hopewell, the lady’s personal guardian. Curious thing about him–-“ Taking a couple of quick glances around to assure himself that no one was within earshot, the Cappoccian native leaned closer to his cousin to impart some confidential scuttlebutt. “You-know-Who somehow clings to the notion that Sir V. is the type of –-well, personality who, when seeking a romantic liaison, um, steers clear of the distaff side of the room.”

The country cousin’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened. “Do tell!”

“Indeed. I suppose that when choosing a bodyguard for his wife, The King thought he’d follow the conventional custom of appointing a man strong enough to defend her virtue while at the same time alleviating concerns about the protector’s own moral strength, if you follow me. Yet, as we all know, the word “trust” is absent from the Royal Lexicon. Consequently, Plan B involved going the route of pashas with their harem keepers. Well, here in Cappoccia, the population of known eunuchs is quite sparse, so HRH believed he had settled on the next best thing with that seemingly harmless knight. But - -“

The other man nodded. “Please proceed, dear Cousin,” he urged as he took a sip from his goblet.

“But the King was mistaken.”

The country cousin’s spit-take made a two-foot arc in the air. Then he giggled, though not exactly from glee nor Schadenfreude. “Cuckolded! Hoisted by his own pet–“

The Cappoccian native clapped a palm over his cousin’s pie-hole. “For God’s sake, pipe down, Man! And if you think there’s hanky-panky going on between those two, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”

“I may have come straight from the sticks, dear Cousin, but who is more qualified to recognize a pile of manure than a country bumpkin?”

“Oh, you know your dung, all right. Not in this case, though.” Then, sotto voce, the gossip-monger explained: “Those two are not an ‘item.’ Not at all. Just friends —well, maybe a little bit more. Look, the lady is a paragon of purity. There’s never been a suspicious whisper nor an iota of doubt that she has always remained faithful to her husband and king. The stalwart knight isn’t harboring any dirty little secrets on his part, either. Each Saturday when he kneels before the priest, the list of his sins is shorter than the King’s sleeve – or would be, were poor Val not so plagued with guilt.”

“ ‘Guilt’? Whatever for?”

“Because his heart doth sweateth with passion unfulfilled, for the swain would fain lie down with yon lady fair. He’s crazy about her!”

“With a love that’s unrequited, I’ll wager.”

The sophisticate shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? Geduld is not one to wear her heart on her sleeve.”

“No accessories, I get that. But what about the poor sap, how does he cope?”

“I hear tell he stays up to all hours of the night working on strambotti and rispetti for her.”

“He makes pasta?”

The Cappoccian glared at his companion and wondered how such a clueless hayseed had wound up in his family. “No, you ignorant fool. Geduld inspires him to write love poems, courtly and chaste. A brief kiss on her hand gives him enough raw material for cranking out a whole cycle of sonnets.”

Meanwhile, half a floor away, one of the castle grunts was carrying on with his duties, albeit begrudgingly so. “Sheesh-- this is ridiculous!” Tom was beginning to believe that in the last few seconds before he was born, some official entity in the eternal realm had pointed to his as-yet-disembodied little soul and prophesied “Stairs!” He put down the current block of ice on the step which he’d lately reached. What the hell was he doing, this busy work, hauling block after block of frozen water up the ever-steepening palace steps on the mere say-so of a scoundrel? Hadn’t Tom reached the point where it was no longer necessary to follow Entgleisung’s arbitrary orders? Certainly the very moment Tom exposed the cad’s treachery, he’d could shuck this mindless bull-work once and for all –- oh, for the perfect time to make the charge, and, alas, the indisputable pudding of proof! In the meantime there remained all this ice, all of these stairs. It reminded him of a story the gatekeeper used to tell him about the guy with a funny name who had been condemned for all eternity to roll a huge rock up a hill, only to watch it roll back down again. That was Tom, all right, another “Sissy Puss.”

Around this same time Astrid was wandering around outside the castle, like Demeter roaming a wintery earth in search of her absent daughter.** Every time the chambermaid heard anything, she froze in place. She couldn’t determine who had made the nearby sound: the man she was seeking or the viper whom she was avoiding. If it were the former, she’d rush in, like a fool; if the latter, she’d fear to tread, like the angel she resembled.*** The uncertainty paralyzed her. It was all she could do to restrain herself from calling Keith’s name, for that would serve only to draw attention to herself. She knew by now that she was totally and incurably smitten, so much so that when the pounding inevitably started, she chalked it up to the beating of her own heart.

Up in the Royal Ballroom, the dirt continued to be dished. The visiting relative devoured every word. His curiosity was like a tapeworm: the more it was fed, the more it craved. He ordered up another tidbit: “-–So if, as you say, everything is on the up-and-up, can Cappoccians one day expect an–er, legitimate heir to the Throne –“ The country cousin craned his neck toward the Royal Consort and squinted; he took a long, hard look. “–or has the good ship Progeny already sailed?”

“Oh, I assure you, dear Cousin, that vessel is still waiting in the harbor, and for the time being, still sea-worthy, so to speak -- I mean, according to my sources, mind you. But You-Know- Who couldn’t care less about producing a little prince. Or princess, for that matter, even though females aren’t eligible to wear the Crown. It’s all moot to him– -he thinks he’s immortal!”

“But that’s so unfair to the Queen–“

Once again the Cappoccian man-about-town covered his cousin’s mouth. “Don’t refer to her by that title. Don’t even say the word– it’s against the law. Bit of a sore spot with HRH, don’tcha know. He didn’t inherit the Crown. Fought for it tooth and nail, though. He got the ball rolling with some strategic lies. Then came battle after bloody battle, all kinds of conspiracies, mysterious assassinations, castle intrigue, you name it. What’s his name, that spooky-looking adviser, masterminded the whole thing. Personally took care of a lot of the dirty work, too.”

“No kidding!” The country cousin swiped a canape off a seafood platter carried by a passing waiter.

“Yep, rumor has it that Engleschwag –- or whatever his name is – - conveniently disposed of the present ruler’s predecessor. Some say he poisoned him with a bit of tainted eel.”

“Whoa!” The listener mounted a panicked attempt tried to replace the hors d’oeuvre back on the tray, now out of reach. Discreetly, he threw it over his shoulder. Even more discreetly, a mouse scampered out from the woodwork, gave the discarded eel pate a sniff, and promptly ran the other way.

“Geduld, now – -she’s got the more legitimate claim, or at least her family does, morganatic and primogeniture issues notwithstanding. That’s why our little ruler married her, just to tighten up the ties that bind. A while back word went round that Geduld wasn’t an only child – evidently there had been an older brother who mysteriously disappeared before she was born. Apparently, his young life wasn’t supposed to be spared, but somehow the boy was secretly brought to the care of a Royal Jester who raised him to become a jester himself. So here’s this young comic performing night after night knocking himself out trying to coax yucks out of the King, who has absolutely no idea of who this clown really was.“

“Incredible!”

“You’re telling me. So this jester – the second one, the son– -gets a wife and son of his own; isn’t getting rich – - in Cappoccia who does? - –but he’s doing okay, loves the work, and one night, what do you know, the King gets pissed off and has him banished!” With that last syllable, the speaker’s eyes rolled back into his head, his knees buckled, and his entire body drooped. He would’ve hit the floor if his companion had not caught him in mid-faint, propped him back on his feet, and slapped his face repeatedly.

“Cousin! Speak to me!”

The patient blinked his eyes and suddenly became alert. “ Whew. Sorry, old chap. Didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Too much to drink?”

He shook his head. “Too much exposition.”

“I was going to say: this so-called wine they’re serving is so watered down it wouldn’t even cause a tiny buzz in a cloistered nun – -“

“Never mind that. The one thing to remember is that our dear monarch has about as much right to the Throne as that big lug over there.” He pointed to the hallway, right outside the entrance to the Royal Ballroom.

Tom had reached the top of the palace stairs for, thank goodness, the last time that evening. “And that’s the lot of you,” he said, as he flung down the final chunk of heavy ice. He couldn’t even savor this tiny triumph without having to endure the harsh interruption from Entgleisung. “I say there! What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, hi Smiley. What’s the problem?”

“ What’s this?” With his left foot, Entgleisung indicated the ice block; the toe of his coal-black boot was so pointed it looked evil, Mephistophelean maybe. He tried maneuvering his foot so it could easily rock the heavy rectangle back and forth, but the block of ice was far too heavy for an ordinary mortal to move. It was possible the advisor intended to establish a position of authority by resting his foot there, but abandoned the plan once the coldness leached through his boot. “Why did you waste your time hauling it up here?”

“You told me to, Chief.”

“No. I specifically ordered you to bring the ice sculpture up to the ballroom.”

“You mean that hokey frozen swan? Been there, done that. Plus –“ With a swooping gesture, Tom showed off the massive stack of ice blocks, neatly piled along the corridor wall.

Entgleisung reared back, as if he had seen a dragon. “Oh, you bumbling fool! These!” He kicked the ice block for real this time, injuring his own foot and disturbing nothing else. “These things are the responsibility of the guildsmen –“

“Hey, I thought you guys weren’t supposed to know about the guilds–“

“These blocks of ice are for Operation Gatewater! They belong on top of the dam!”

Tom smirked. “There’s plenty of ‘em sittin’ up there right now. Matter of fact, there’s a whole shipload,” he said, carefully enunciating the “p” in the penultimate syllable.

“Well, get these away from the Ballroom. Immediately!”

The shipper- and- receiver sat down on the edge of the staircase, his long legs dangling down at least three tiers of steps. If Sir Walter Raleigh’s return itinerary from the New World had included a stopover at Cappoccia, and if the noble traveler had chanced to drop off a couple of cartons of samples there, this would have been the ideal moment for Tom to enjoy one of those rolled-up sticks of dried Nicotiana leaves, and he would have thoroughly relished the experience of blowing smoke directly into Entgleisung’s ugly mug. In lieu of that satisfying set of circumstances, Tom stretched his arms, yawned, and said “Are you telling me you actually give a. . .’ship’ about ice? I mean, a fella like you has got better things to do, right? Real important stuff -- oh, I don’t know – whatever traitors do, like cookin’ the books, plottin’ an abduction, maybe plannin’ a regicide –“

“Why, you impudent –-“ Entgleisung’s eyes burned like a piece of obsidian in a rich man’s stove. Both bony hands curled into vicious claws aimed for Tom’s neck, and just as he lunged forward, the sound of horrible pounding came from below.

Also, shouts: “We want IN!” “Give us our coats back so we can get out of here!”

Entgleisung looked at Tom, then looked down the steps toward the source of the noise, and looked at Tom again, this time with an even meaner scowl. “I’ll deal with you later. In the meantime, remove all this ice.”

“Yeah, right.” He didn’t move a muscle. “In the meantime– and I do mean ‘mean’- - why don’t you stick it where the sun don’t shine?” Tom suggested, knowing full well that when it came to guys like Entgleisung, Old Sol was smart enough to stay almost a hundred million miles away.


*
That old Devil, Abstraction

**
Two allusions to Greek mythology in as many paragraphs. (Nobody can’t say this thing ain’t literate!)

***
“Fools Rush In. . .” If the composer of that song is considering litigation for clumsy rendering of (possibly) copyrighted material, tell ‘im Alexander Pope called and wants his line back.



TO BE CONTINUED - - - -

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King Part TWELVE

Assuming a facial expression so serious that it looked comic, D. J. Harold goose-stepped to the center of the Royal Ballroom. With his ensemble downsized into a single instrument, he lifted his trumpet and let loose with a note possibly intended to approximate a flat “A” but came out like a squeaking fart.

At that precise point, The King stepped out behind him. He’d apparently allotted time for an expected ovation that was not forthcoming; just the same, The King thanked the crowd, the captive audience for “a few brief words” that – -if past Royal Addresses were any indication--would prove to be anything but brief. “We do know that our honored guests will be graceless enough to accuse this little interval in the festivities before the stupideous surprise your beloved ruler has in store for you – Project Gatewater – which will compense in just a few moments. But first! -- we would like to shear with you a sniffigant ejaculation.”

“Oh joy!” sniffed the jaded party-goer. “The King’s speech.”

“That’s okay by me, Cousin. I could use a nap.”

The Royal Address also provided a golden opportunity for a small percentage of guests at the ball. With every eye (if not ear) upon the King, the bravest of his constituents saw a chance to slip away unnoticed, in spite of the fact that a premature departure during an address from The King was considered a rude breach of royal protocol, hand-stamp or no hand-stamp. Not only that, such a brazen escape was painfully illegal, carrying with it a mandatory sentence in the dungeon. For some Cappoccians, though, a stretch in the clink was infinitely more desirable than being forced to listen to the endless droning of Brot’s inane idiolect. Making a break for it was well worth the risk. All it took was a quick stop at the Royal Cloakroom to retrieve their belongings, then out the castle door.


The King pulled out the handwritten proclamation he‘d been holding between his squatty arm and fubsy torso. The inept attempt to snap it open might have been meant to imitate an agile cavalier drawing his sword, but the clumsy effect resembled a doddering old fool fumbling with a balky umbrella. At the lengthwise edge of the cylindrical document, Brot inserted his less-than-nimble thumb to be used to unfurl the tightly-coiled roll. The Royal Proclamation stubbornly refused to flatten into a reader-friendly dimension, not unlike a calendar that lay in its shipping tube until May, when somebody in the household finally remembered to hang it up.* The faux parchment was merely an inanimate object, but one with a unbendable will of its own, obeying no earthly monarch but the supremely comfortable Law of Inertia. The King, nevertheless, engaged in frustrating combat with it, to the point at which he believed he had at long last triumphed – - only to have the damn thing roll right back into its original position, but not before slapping him in the Royal Face.

Geduld poked her constant companion in the ribs. “Why don’t you give him a hand?”

Ordinarily Sir Val was loath to do any favors for his secret rival, but this was no time to renege on his singular vow to do everything His Lady asked. “Allow me, Sire,” he said, gently taking the recalcitrant roll out of The King’s sweaty little patty-whacker. “Let me try something I used to do with my François Villon Fan Club posters.”

The solution to the problem was obvious to the resourceful nobleman, who took the outer flap and started rolling the opposite way, the interior side of the document becoming exterior and vice versa. Then he took either end and bent the fake parchment backassward into a parabolic curve, flipped it right side up, gently tugged the bottom and top, and returned it to The King. The whole process took all of seven seconds. “Voila!” Sir Val exclaimed. “Your proclamation, Sire. Flat as a female scholar’s bosom.”

“A what?”

“ You know, like a woman’s endearingly maternal parts.”

“ Duh. We knew that, you stuck-up sissy. But what in blazers do you mean by ‘female scholar’? It’s one of those whatd’yacallems – - an octave for morons.” **

Sir Val shot a quick glance over to Geduld, shaking her head, then he looked back at The King. “Well now, Sire, all of us are eager to hang on your very words. Please proceed,Your Majesty. ”

“ ‘Hang’ is right, Hopewell,” said the King, holding the Royal Proclamation at arm’s length, which in his case was not entirely far enough to compensate for presbyopia*** (which, upon the first dim signs of symptoms, The King had found inexplicable, defying his iron-clad decree that monarchs were not to be susceptible to middle-age maladies found in commoners.) So with his foreshortened arms fully extended and with a determined squint he began to decipher his own chicken-scratched scrawls. The crowd heard the customary liberation of phlegm required of all public speakers, followed by what The King liked to call the “perforation”: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we come to you tonight with a heavy hard. As you all know (as well you must under penalty of law), your blessed kingdom is you knee kay among the Tri-Country Area in that your beloved ruler is deprecated to the values of truthiness,**** justice, and the Cappoccian Way. That’s why any deviousation is a treat –-“The King’s raised an eyebrow, and frowning, gave the word a second look. “Make that ‘threat’ –threat to Peace, which happens to be every kingdom’s first primordial. Peace is pretty good. We like peace – - a little piece of it - – in our beloved Cappoccia. But peace comes at a price, a price we are willing to pay.”

The sophisticate leaned toward his cousin and whispered, “If that’s true, it’ll be a first for His Royal Tightness.”

“You might ask yourselves, ‘Why? Why does our supremely wise monarch want to pay for a piece?’ And we answer, loud and strong, ‘Because we got reasons for it, that’s why! A whole gang o’ greviousances.’

“Greviousance Number One Point Oh. A certain country across the bay proses a threat to peace because we’ve seen ‘em, Ladies and Gents, we’ve seen ‘em letting their subjects come and go as they please, do what they want, keep whatever coin o’ the realm they earn with only a teensy-weensy kickback to their monarchs.This is a dangerous excrement which can only contaminate--" having correctly uttered the multi syllabic word, the speaker beamed broadly "-the neighboring kingdoms, namely us. . .”

Downstairs outside the cloakroom a minor situation had developed directly involving the guests attempting to cut out early. “This is odd,” one of them observed. “The door won’t open.” He turned the handle to the right and left, pushed, and pulled. This man was either the kind of guy who didn’t like to take “no” for an answer or the kind who had the habit of doing the same thing over and over in expectation of a different result, for he kept repeating his actions, all in vain.


“Why don’t you try knocking on it, Nigel?” his companion suggested, cautioning: “But not too loudly. We don’t want to give ourselves away.”

The first fellow clenched his fist and with his bent knuckles gave the thick wooden door a rat-tat-tat-tat. “Hello? Anybody in there?”

Although it was becoming increasingly clear that it was highly unlikely that the door would be opened from the inside, the two men stepped up their entreaties, the initial gentle rapping escalating to a full shave-and-a-haircut, two bits. The exasperation level likewise took an upward spike: The man named Nigel was not about to let this piece of wood beat him. The more frustrated he got, the louder the knocking, until it reached the plateau of full-scale pounding. “We want IN!” Or, at the very least, “Give us our coats back so we can get out of here!”

A mere few moments later came the startling sight of a dark figure coming down the stairs. “Oh, now you’ve gone and done it, Nigel! We’re caught – by none other than the second in command himself.”

“What are you doing here? No guest is permitted to leave the premises until dismissed by His Majesty himself.”

“Uh– - we’re aware of that, Sir. But you see, it’s an emergency. My buddy here, Nigel –“ (who, at the mention of his real name, gave the stool-pigeon a dirty look, the preferred rebuttal a kick in the shin being an inconvenient option at the moment.) “I’m afraid he’s taken ill, and–“

“What’s wrong with him-- is he drunk?”

“Er– not exactly, Sir. He thinks he might have accidentally swallowed some tainted seafood and as a result his belly is quite queasy, and I thought I’d better get him home before something unfortunate were to happen right in the middle of His Majesty’s remarks– well, first we had to grab our wraps, and the cloakroom door is locked.”

“So I see.” The kind of fellow who never took anyone’s word on anything, Entgleisung thus tried turning the doorknob itself, along with some heavy pounding of his own, as well as shouting. “Open this door immediately, you little trollop! Open up, I say!” With slightly more patience than that of the two would-be escapees, the chief advisor gave up fighting with the door. “I’m going to have to look for the person who has the key. You two wait here.”

“Could you kindly make it quick, Sir? My friend’s taking on a most peculiar shade of green,and it’s only a matter of time before he’ll start hurling.”

“On second thought,” Entgleisung said, “we’ve just had this floor scrubbed and waxed and polished. Why don’t both of you go on home – the Palace servants will send along your personal items you later.”

“You’re sending us out into the cold without our coats?”


------------------
*
Though this “story” doesn’t need to be pegged to a specific historical era, à la Game of Thrones, conceivably it could have taken place roughly in the late 16th, early 17th century – give or take, the anachronistic Robin Hood: Men in Tights elements withstanding. The calendar du jour would probably still have been the Julian, as modern trends had a tendency to catch on very slowly in Cappoccia. Incidentally, even more ancient versions of the Roman calendar didn’t even acknowledge the existence of January and February, characteristically too dark and cold to bother with; hence, way back then, the year began with March and ended with December, the tenth month, until later alterations included twelve months, retaining the original names. The calendar created by Julius Caesar dominated Europe from circa 46 B.C. right up until it was supplanted by the “new style” calculations ordered by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582. The Gregorian calendar dominated Western civilization with the notable exceptions of England, which finally adopted it in 1752, and Russia which held out until 1918. Just a couple of fun factoids coming your way free of charge. You’re welcome, but please don’t quote me.

**
A.k.a “Paradoxes for Dummies.”

***
Presbyopia – Lutherans and Methodists can get it as well.

****
Thank you, Stephen Colbert.


TO BE CONTINUED ---

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King– Part THIRTEEN


After The King paused to catch his breath, the Royal Proclamation continued. “Greviousance Number 27 point one. This kingdom across the bay is washy-wishy about security. They got porcelain borders –- people can come and go as they please. Nobody comes here, but everybody goes there! We can’t tell you, Laddies and Gentile men, how many of our beloved Cappoccian subjects we’ve lost this way. The raisin we can’t tell you how many is because we’ve lost count!”

“I say, Cousin, The King’s got lots of stamina for a little fella,” the rustic gentleman remarked.

“Yeah, once he gets his second wind, he can go on for hours, all night if he wants to. Looks like we’ll be stuck here for quite a while.”

“ Maybe I will have another dose of that cheap vino after all.”


“Obviously, mistakes were made. A minor mix-up, a breakdown in communications. Merely the everyday red tape that inevitably tangles up the various agencies of the Court. I’m certain that you, of all people, should understand that, as an officer of Cappoccia’s finest. And a distinguished member at that, I might add.” One would think that if there was anything that the slippery Entgleisung should have been good at, it would’ve been wiggling out of a jam. Not tonight, though. Accompanying the “non-apology apology” was the most convincing simper he was able to assume, the effort required to contort his jaw muscles into a self-effacing grin all for naught, since the darkness rendered it nearly invisible.

“Yeah, well, be that as it may, you sent me on a wild-goose hunt, and you still owe me my reward. So cough it up.” Officer Keith maintained absolutely zero qualms about calling the villain’s bluff. He knew perfectly well that the chance of getting a reward was as likely as a commoner becoming an anointed king. Nevertheless, the guard played along, if only to watch the scoundrel squirming and thrashing around for his next move.

“Oh, you’ll be compensated, my boy, don’t you fret. Heh-heh.” Entgleisung’s version of a chuckle would have nauseated the strongest stomach in Christendom. “But why settle for a hastily-cast medal or a couple of measly coins, when you could have the opportunity of a lifetime?” Putting on a confidential tone which he believed sounded amicable, Entgleisung was trying to pass himself off as a trusted comrade – a role that did not at all come easily to him. “You know what? I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Cappoccia’s military is expanding, even as we speak. Right at this moment a whole world of opportunity is opening up, tailor-made for an upstanding soldier such as yourself.” With that, the chief advisor slapped his icy hand down on the guard’s shoulder. It was all Officer Keith could do not to brush it away, as if an over-sized, disgusting insect had landed there.

“How would you like to be in charge of your own unit– - a whole regiment, perhaps? If you play your cards right, you might even find yourself knighted! Sounds good, huh? Or– - “ Entgleisung was running out of bribery fodder, “–or how about a title? You could be an earl – or a duke! A duke with your own duchy! Now wouldn’t that be ducky?”

By this point, it occurred to Keith that the cheating/embezzling/double-crossing traitor had gone completely off the deep end. He was actually beginning to sound like The King.



“. . .And that was – let us see now, where where we?– Oh, yes, Greviousance Number 42.* That occludes the list of greviousances –“

“This is outrageous!“ The criticism, though true, stemmed from the root of one ingrained with conviction of his own intellectual superiority (also true.) “The damn fool’s making up stuff as he goes along!” The speaker’s irritation quickly segued to abashment. “Oh! Forgive me, dear lady! That was uncalled for.**I did not intend to offend you with my seditious remarks and -- ”

Geduld forgave him with a wave of her hand. “You should know me better than that by now, Val. ” she said. “I never pay attention to anything the pipsqueak ever says.”

“And so, Jadies and Lents, in conclusion –“ (the last word seemed to be a hopeful sign that compelled a few to respond with spontaneous, involuntary applause) “we hair abide issue the following ejaculation. We, Brot the Magnificient, Supreme Ruler of Cappoccia and all of its Provinces, Territories, and Possessions and on behalf of all of our beloved subjects do hair abide denounce to the neighboring kingdom of Genitalia this here Decoration of War!”

A collective gasp let out from the crowd, followed by a swarm of whispers:

--“ War? Did I hear him right?”

--“Did he say Gentletralia?”

-- “It can’t be true –“

–-“War?”


“The offer’s on the table, Buddy Boy. It would behoove you to make a decision without delay. Come sunup we’re going to start invading Gentletralia, and –-“ Entgleisung stopped mid-sentence, as if he’d heard something. “Excuse me just a minute, Officer. I’ll be right back.”

Had Keith heard “Gentletralia”? Why, that was Keith’s homeland! What kind of untenable situation had he gotten himself into, having sworn allegiance to the country about to go to war against the land of his birth? From the outer limits of his toenails to the very ends of the hairs on his head, he started shaking, piqued at himself, but furious at Entgleisung, the evil instigator, whom he vowed to fight with the zeal of a righteous Huguenot.

Though Officer Keith could see little in the darkness, the sound of a scuffle was unmistakable. Entgleisung’s grating voice escalated toward an octave that could be heard far across the bay. “You worthless piece of garbage! Leaving an official post like that is not just irresponsible-- it’s criminal! Prepare for a long stretch in the dungeon, you little slut!” This was followed by the unmistakable sound of a slap. And then another. In between them shrieks of a decidedly feminine nature pierced the cool night air. At that point– perhaps a little belatedly – the constable sprang into action.

He followed the sound of the voices until he stood directly in front of the squabbling pair. “Unhand her, you Hellhound!”

The proximity of Officer Keith on the scene did not affect Entgleisung a whit, except for the fact it reminded him of another transgression by Astrid. From beneath his shroud-like robe, a long, spindly leg rose and aimed itself toward Astrid’s backside, and though it made contact, the impact fell short of its intended strength. “And that’s for failing to deliver the note!” Entglesiung shouted before returning to his chosen mode of combat, namely pummeling the young woman with his bony fists.

Officer Keith, seething with wrath, gripped both ends of his partisan, and thrust it forward toward the chief adviser’s bobbling Adam’s apple. When it became immediately evident that the slender club was not up to the task, the guard tossed it aside and drew his sword – which the chief advisor promptly seized by the hilt and tossed to the ground.

Thus, the fracas evolved into a bare-bones, mano a mano type of conflict, both parties with their fists raised high, neither man making contact as the pair circled round and round, merely marking time until the moment when one would succeed in landing the first blow, if indeed that moment were ever to arrive.

It looked as if the only “injury” that could occur would be two pairs of sore feet, resulting from the continuous dancing around in circles. A brief break in the seemingly interminable stalemate occurred when Entgleisung happened to crouch down closer to the ground, ostensibly to get a better bead on his somewhat shorter opponent. It was at that serendipitous point that Astrid saw her opportunity. She extracted a heavy metal object out of her pocket, ran up behind her constant tormentor, and conked him squarely on the base of his skull. With that, it seemed as if Entgleisung’s fate had been sealed. Royally.


The country cousin had lost count of just how many goblets of wine he had quaffed, yet he remained sober as a prioress. “ ‘Swounds. The mere prospect of being drafted positively gags me.”

“What are you talking about? You forget that we happen to belong to the nobility. They’ll scrub every hill and dale for every able-bodied slob before they touch the likes of us.”

“And when all the commoners have been conscripted?”

The know-it-all Cappoccian smugly shook his head. “Not gonna happen. By the time they run out of conscriptees, it’ll be all over. These little ‘military skirmishes’ or ‘police actions’ or whatever you want to call ‘em never last very long. In and out. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”

“Well, I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. So relax. Have another drink.”

At last it was time for the promised “extravaganza” to be preceded by a procession of the King and his honored guests out to the designated “viewing area” recently constructed on the spacious Royal Terrace. According to His Majesty’s expressed wishes, the guests were not expected merely to walk in an orderly fashion, but to “dance” out there, en masse.

With assistance from D.J. Harold along with a handful of sullen waiters, the party-goers were instructed to line up, each guest behind another, single-file in a slightly curving line. The person directly behind was to hold the waist of the person in front of him. When the jagged rhythms of D.J. Harold’s “music” struck up, the line was supposed to move in unison, with the human components swaying to and fro while performing the basic prescribed step –“ One-two-three-four-KICK! KICK! One-two-three-four-KICK! KICK!”***

“Quite an odd type of rhythm, wouldn’t cha say,Cousin?” The bumpkin remarked, as he gripped the waist of his relative in front of him. “Not actually a Scottish reel – more like a brawl or perhaps some sort of modified jig?”

“Yes, it’s quite exotic. I’m told it was discovered in the New World, way down in the steamy regions occupied by the Conquistadores.”

“I guess they draft people over there as well.”

“I told you: quit worrying! Now, One-two-three-four-KICK! KICK!”



“Oh, dear God -– I’ve killed him!” With both fists tightly clenched and clutched against her cheeks, Astrid shrank back from the enemy whom she’d single-handedly conquered. “Not that he didn’t have it comin’, the lousy bast–“

“Nay, he’s just knocked out,” assured Officer Keith, recognizing the sterling opportunity to comfort her. “Are you all right? – that’s the important thing!” Covering her shoulders with his own cloak, he attempted to make a move to hold her in his arms. “Oh, my dear, I just don’t –I mean, it distresses me to see you putting yourself in danger like that. You shouldn’t have risked it–especially when a man was here to save you. Why didn’t you let me rescue - –“

“Hey! Where do you get off telling me what to do? What do you take me for, some kind of helpless damsel in distress? Some dumb female who can’t defend herself?”

“Please, Astrid, you’re breaking my -–“

“ ‘Cute little Astrid,’ huh? Let me tell you somethin’, Bub: the ‘cute’ part ain’t gonna last forever. Same with the ‘little.’ The ol’ avoirdupois is creepin’ up on me every day –“ At that, Officer Keith started to giggle. And so did she.

The King’s personal project, the top-secret “Operation Gateway” was well under way. His Majesty beamed with pride as the Cappoccian Dam became transformed into a pageant of sparkling rainbows fronting a ballet of gurgling streams. A lengthy string of colored lanterns had been symmetrically arranged along the very top of the structure where hidden torches slowly melted hundreds of blocks of ice, their newly-liquid form cascading down the side of the dam. It was an extravagant display, to be sure, yet one custom-designed for a naively-receptive, easily-dazzled, and quasi-articulate audience, including the out-of-town partygoers who would on the morrow gush to their stay-at-home neighbors that it had been ”truly a sight to see.”

During the event, there were the expected “Ooohs and ahs,” but, alas, an undercurrent of anxiety had put a damper on the gaiety. The Royal Terrace held fast under the weight of shock and dismay, surreptitiously expressed by a low rumble of mutterings, sighs, and half-whispered prayers. It was difficult to appreciate the beauty of the artifice, when reality kept rearing its ugly head: impeding warfare and everything that grim prospect entailed – including the oft-cited caution that the first casualty of war is the truth (though even in peace time the difference in Cappoccia was imperceptible.)

An elder-nobleman turned to one of his peers and questioned the wisdom of the ruler’s latest plans. “ I say, if we weren’t taxed to the limit before, just wait till the War gets underway. And Gentletralia! Can you imagine? There’s not a more peace-loving kingdom on the entire continent, truly!”

“Even so, ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do and d– -well, perhaps not us, personally. His Majesty has his reasons, which reason cannot recognize.”

“No, not in its wildest dreams. . .”

At the same time, a couple who could charitably be described as being slightly on the south side of "middle-aged" likewise expressed misgivings over His Majesty's latest scheme.

“. . .good thing Erick’s up at the University, Dear," the lady remarked. "I could hardly bear it if he –“

“Well, he’d damned well better get his grades up or his educational deferment will be as useless as a cracked chamber pot.. .”

Like rampant weeds claiming territory between rows of crops, softly-spoken comments of a similar nature popped up here and there across the Royal Terrace. The initial disbelief and denial at The King’s announcement fell by the proverbial wayside as indignation and fear took their places. Within many a young and terror-rattled soul, the desperate word “desert” came to mind at the same time that the Royal Chef was rolling out -–on literal wheels!-- the highly-anticipated dessert, what The King had touted as “the piece of resistance,” an astoundingly enormous pie. Needless to say, so soon after the distressing news about the War, few had much of an appetite for much of anything –- definitely not for pastry, not even the debut of a culinary creation.

The kitchen staff rigged up a custom-made step-stool for His Majesty to stand upon in order to cut the pie. With ineluctable courage, the Royal Chef knelt before him with a red satin pillow, on the top of which sat a alarmingly sharp cleaver. The King grabbed the handle as if the fat knife had been in his tiny hand the minute he was born, and with one swift blow, he pierced the mammoth circle of golden crust. The very moment the pie was opened, a chorus of birds poked out the points of their beaks, which broke into song celebrating their imminent liberation.

Immediately, The King fell backward off the little stool. Having survived the half-foot fall, he nonetheless rolled around the floor while clutching his chest. “Great saints in Heaven! We’re undergoing carbolic arrest! Who dusted -dost-dares to send us to an early grave by scarring us to death?”

Springing to his feet, he was fuming now, sputtering, jumping up and down. “What kind of trash is this to set before The King? Dirty old birds baked inside a pie? Were we to be poisoned by their deprecation on the bottom crust! ‘Sblood! We shall puke!”

This was followed by a lengthy string of invective-laced recriminations, then, with the “chickens,” so to speak, having come home to roost, came the pronouncement of the Royal Punishment: “Vanish them! Vanish them all immediately!” A squad of Palace Guards (Officer Keith in absentia) seized the Royal Chef and his entire staff, including the petrified waiters in the ballroom as well as the unwitting servants still toiling away down in the Royal Kitchen. “Throw them out into the street! Barb the door!”

Despite the melee, the visitor from the country was highly impressed. “My, that’s some dainty dish – - four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.”

His cousin concurred. “Two score and four rooks en crusté. Incidentally, whatever happened to the Queen of Tarts?”

“Maybe some miracle restored her virtue.”


Out in the all-but- deserted topiary garden, Tom was beginning to worry. “Kitchen Gretchen” had yet to arrive. Sure it was late, but it wasn’t like her to stand him up. Maybe she had to work overtime: what with the cockamamie Royal shindig, the poor kid was probably stuck washing hundreds of dishes, scores of serving platters, and an untold number of goblets.

Tom stationed himself in their long-standing rendevous point, right under the shrub sculpted into the shape of a unicorn. Ordinarily this was a popular spot for Cappoccian couples whether their liaisons were licit or not, the legend about the affinity between unicorns and virgins not necessarily applicable in the latter case. Some nights there’d be a flock of lovebirds waiting their turns to tryst in the shadow of the unicorn, and the coveted privilege would necessarily come with a time limit, requiring that their billing and cooing and--whatever else – -be done expediently.**** But on this particular night, everyone was still at the Ball, so Tom and his lady-love would have –- would have had–- the place all to themselves. They’d be in a rare state of complete privacy, in which just the two of them could enjoy the spectacle of the artificial waterfalls, maybe even pretend that “Operation Gatewater” was presented for them alone. And wouldn’t you know it-- “Kitchen Gretchen” was a no-show.

Unaccustomed to exhaustion, Tom began to feel the effect of his unprecedented active day in its waning hours. It would have taken only the slightest nudge to convince him to give it up, go on home, and get some much-needed sleep on the rock-hard slab called his bed. But this was “Kitchen Gretchen” he was waiting for, not some garden variety scullery maid. And what if a few short moments after he had left, she finally were to arrive, only to find Tom not there? That would be awful, unthinkable, the repercussions irreparable.

He decided he would wait it out a few more minutes. In order to rest, he leaned against the topiary sculpture without looking where he was going, and in the process inadvertently backed into the unicorn’s horn, surprisingly sharp for a section of pruned foliage.

Then, on top of everything else, along came a blackbird which nearly snipped off his nose.

-------
*
Plug “42"+ “the meaning of life” into the “Google” machine.

**
At least he didn’t say “inartful.”

***

Conga!

****
Trysting the night away under a deadline--
Woody Allen: “We’d better hurry. Before you know it, it will be the Renaissance and everybody will be painting.”



TO BE CONTINUED ---

(Believe it or not, we're coming down to the home stretch.)

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King – - Chapter FOURTEEN

Like an inveterate palfrey fresh out of giddy-up and go, the Royal Ball had come to a stop. By now, the revelers were long gone, many already snoring in their beds, the rest well en route to their relatively distant homes. Nary a stray hanger-on or straggler remained outside in the Royal Courtyard, with the exception of a pair of young Cappoccian natives. In the waning hours of the night, the opportunities for pickpockets and troublemakers had vanished along with the easy marks and naive gulls, leaving behind naught but the proverbial “slim pickin’s” for the petty, though eternally ambitious, criminals.*

Neither lad was ready to call it quits, both stubborn in the mutual mission to wreak mischief –- if only through sheer force of will. Just as tenacious was the night, which maintained its dominance, despite the threat of the approaching day. There was a sky full of darkness left, though, and plenty of time for the boys to court chaos and raise hell before the sun would inevitably rise and blow their cover.

With such trouble in mind, the duo inexplicably proceeded toward the area behind the palace, where, despite the presence of a few outbuildings, the population was sparse, especially at this time of night. Although the possibility of coming across potential robbery victims or property ripe for vandalism was nearly nil, the ne’er-do-wells nonetheless headed to the backfield -- the only territory that they hadn’t yet covered that evening, as well as providing a convenient way home, which is where they both would ultimately wind up, albeit reluctantly.

While maneuvering across the uneven terrain, they intermittently tripped over unseen obstacles, a hidden hole here, an invisible stone there, each false step inspiring bursts of giggling jibes. Over in the corner of the eastern sky, a narrow band of gray light was beginning to peek through, but the raucous merriment was as fresh as it had been at sundown until one of the boys stumbled over something and fell flat on his face.

“Gah – what is that?” the fallen boy gasped as he picked himself up, not bothering to brush himself off. Upon closer inspection, the object looked decidedly human, though seemingly lifeless: prone, with all four appendages spread out on the ground, as if the body had been dropped out of the sky.

The other boy, having grabbed a nearby stick, flipped him over -- gingerly as it were a dead lizard.

“Is ‘e dead?”

“Dunno. It’s still too bloody dark out here. Can’t tell if his chest is movin’.”

“Well, put your hand on it –“

"I ain’t gonna touch ‘im – you touch ‘im!”

“Check his eyes.”

“They don’t look like crosses, like in that tapestry pitcha .”

With such incontrovertible evidence that the man was still alive, the boys deduced that he must’ve passed out and was currently in the process of “sleepin’ it off.” By now a glowing magenta stripe bordered the bright gray covering the majority of the sky, making the transition between night and daybreak nearly complete. At this point, whatever the boys decided to do, they would have to do quickly, otherwise risk getting caught in an act of red-handed mayhem.

In this case, the modus operandi was -- by its technical term --“rolling a drunk,” although the actual act of overturning the victim had already been accomplished. There only remained the obligatory rifling of the pockets, no easy task, given the man’s voluminous garment. The boys went through every crease and crevice, uncovering only an empty bag and a folded slip of paper with words, some scratched out and amended, written on it.

“What’s it say?”

“How the dickens do I know?** I can’t read no more than you can!”

“Well, maybe it’s got ‘is name ‘n’ address on it or somethin’– -“

Both boys agreed that such identifying information was quite logical, since it was uncertain precisely when the knave would “come to” under his own wretched power. A brief discussion followed concerning the question of what to do with the temporarily incapacitated gentleman, whether he should be transported to a somewhat better-traveled site in which he would be more readily noticed, as opposed to leaving him where he lay, thereby depositing into the lap of Fate the timing of the wretched soul’s eventual discovery. When one of the boys advocated the latter option, his companion strongly objected, precipitating a bit of a minor scuffle, which included bilateral insults, taunts, and arm-punches. By the time the ascendent sun exposed broad daylight, the squabble suddenly ceased, for the boys realized the necessity of separating themselves from what looked like one of their typical crime scenes. In short order the two dragged the unconscious deadweight across the field and dumped him in the muddy alley between the South Stable and the last outbuilding. “Somebody’ll spot him here for sure,” one of the boys said. “And the beauty part is ain’t nobody gonna make a connection with him and us. Maybe somebody can get his wife to come down and fetch ‘im.”

“His ‘wife’? Look at ‘im! Who’d have this ugly son of a bee?”

With that, the two punks swiftly fled the scene, and under the full sun’s undeniable declaration that the day had officially begun, an unconscious man lay flat on the ground. Attached to the front of his long, dark robe was a safety pin holding a note whose message essentially said: “Give him the ‘Royal Treatment’.”



The Cappoccian townspeople were typically early risers, no less so on this particular morning after The King’s shindig. Except for the smoldering torches and melting ice blocks atop the damned dam, there was little evidence left to indicate that there had even been a Royal Ball the night before. In the village itself every banner, flag, and souvenir emporium had been ripped down and hidden -- if not thrown -- away, simply because the commoners had no use for mementoes of the event. (This was quite the opposite of how the villagers usually dealt with the trappings of holidays once they’d passed; each year after the Feast of the Epiphany, Cappoccian households blithely allowed mistletoe springs to lose their pearly berries, spindly branches of evergreens to drop their browning needles to the floor, and the burnt-out remains of the Yule log to remain in the hearth almost until Ash Wednesday.) The commoners had realized absolutely no benefit from the King’s Ball; indeed the ostensibly festive event had ended in a horrifying way, for the tyrant had exploited the occasion to declare war. Although practically no roturier had been a guest at the ball, the townsfolk had caught wind of the imminent war; word of the impending crisis had transpired fast.

Moreover, the bad news was literally “brought home” with early-morning knocks on Cappoccian doors. Officers of the Royal Military as well as a number of Palace Guards were dragging sleepy-eyed Cappoccian youths out of their rough-hewn beds into the streets, where they were ordered to line up in rows. Most were seized and pushed, some were pulled and kicked, and still another found himself in the middle of a tug-o-war, an adamant soldier yanking one arm, a tearful mother yanking the other.

Meanwhile, the literal sense of “cannon fodder” also had begun to litter the town, as, with single-minded dedication, the King’s “Harmy” rapidly stockpiled weaponry, ammunition, and the deadly machines blessed by the god of War. The aforementioned cannons had been rolled out and their payloads had been carted to a central location; likewise crossbows, longbows, and their arrows lay in regulated piles. Swords and bucklers, pointed pikes and deceptively blunt-edged bills, sharply-pronged halberds and most familiar to the guards, the nine-foot long partisan, as well as a limited number of firearms, featuring the arquebus, the musket, and their little brother, the dag, all belied their expressly deadly purpose by leisurely leaning, like lounging courtesans, against the walls of buildings. A relic of a centuries past, a creaky but formidable trebuchet had been wheeled, squeaking all the way, up to the crest of a small hill a short distance off the town’s main drag. (As of that particular date in the country’s history, Cappoccia had no naval vessels, so exactly how the unwieldy armaments as well as the developing divisions of personnel were to be transported to the shores of Gentletralia for the invasion was not immediately known.)

Overnight, the Royal Guard had been “transitioned” out of its “domestic security” role into an officially military one, specifically ordered to locate and enroll all able-bodied (and not so able-bodied) Cappoccian commoners into the service of their King. Among the squads of recruiters, one guard was absent, but not conspicuously so, for the missing man was so relatively new that -–amid the frenetic activity marking that particular morning– -no one had missed him. To anyone interested in learning the truth, Officer Keith would willingly ‘fess up that he had found himself in a kind of Limbo, in which he could no longer serve his adopted kingdom which had declared war against the peaceful land of his birth. His heart felt the tug of his homeland entreating him to return, but just as compelling were the reasons for choosing to remain in what had recently exposed itself as enemy territory. In practical terms, he knew that there was no such thing as “safe passage,” with the already heavily patrolled borders shored up in anticipation of masses fleeing the threat of war; and philosophically speaking, he had forged an unwritten bond with his new colleague, in which both parties had tacitly understood that each would aid the other in the imminent times of trouble. Overriding both of these reasons was one that had escaped the bailiwick of rationality in order to gambol in the realm of affection and adoration. Consequently Officer Keith had assumed a low profile, away from the vulgarly bellicose ranks, until such time he could settle on his next move, meanwhile enjoying the company of a most pleasant companion.

“You shaved your beard!”

“Yea. It’s sort of a disguise, in reverse. What’s the matter -- don’t you like it?”

“Yes, of course I do –“

“But–?”

“But nothing. You look dashing, Keith.”

“Look at you, you’re blushing! “

Astrid was doubly-flustered: for her inability to conceal her disappointment and for getting caught at it. And now she’d have to Explain Herself.

“Something’s wrong, I just know it! Come on, you can tell your ol’ Uncle Keith.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really. Forget –“

Officer Keith sat down right in front of her, rested his fist under his chin, and lovingly gazed into her eyes.

“Well, if you put it that way, if you must know, I misunderstood why you got rid of the beard. I thought, I – - oh, you’re going to think I’m such a silly ninny. I thought you did it to make your face less scratchy, when we – we –“

It was all Officer Keith could do to stifle a laugh, a triumphantly soaring expression of joy.“Hmmph. “ He coughed, cleared his throat. “Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out–-“ Then he pulled her close and dispelled all doubt.



In the nameless town surrounding the Royal Palace, the conscription process continued as The King’s surrogates zealously commandeered unwilling townsfolk into service, to increase the ranks with what is euphemistically called “enlisted men.” “Here’s a couple more for ya.” A low-level military officer had emerged with two fresh recruits; holding each by the collar, he looked like a huntsman triumphantly showing off his recent conquests. “Found ‘em nosin’ around the backstretch.”

His comrade sniffed. “We only just started and already we’re scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel? All right, you two guttersnipes. Get the hell in line.” The verbal command was punctuated with a shove to one confused youth, a swift kick to the backside of the other.

No less bewildered was Tom. Scratching his head and looking here and there with a puzzled look on his face, he wandered through the town. Tom’s personality was multi-faceted, but clueless was not one of them, so it took him very little time to gather what was going on: preparations for War on a massive –- and decidedly swift– -scale. Shouts and pleas and curses littered the air; the sounds of moving artillery and a facsimile of “marching” feet pounded on Cappoccia’s long-beleaguered ground. Above the din Tom distinctly heard the rackety wheels of a rickety cart and the crank of its sudden stop.

Immediately one of the thugs yanked open the rear hatch of the cart and pulled out a physically-protesting passenger. “A stowaway, are ya? More like a dirty deserter if you ask me. Get in line with the rest of ‘em before I make an example of ya, you yellow-bellied draft dodger!”

With equal portions of surprise and dismay the shipping and receiving clerk recognized the alleged shirker as one of his buddies, a co-worker in the palace. Tom’s initial instinct was to call out his friend’s name –“Morty!” and rush to his aid, but under the dangerous circumstances, reason overruled Tom’s selfless nature. Within a fraction of a second, however, he heard someone calling his own name. From within the cart, a pair of lovely feminine arms reached out through the vertical bars.

“ ‘Gretchen!’ Why, what –“

“Tom!” she cried. “The King has banished us-- the entire Royal Kitchen staff!”

“Oh, that’s nuts – where will he get his meals?”

“I don’t know – - order out? “

“Listen, Gretch –- the little twerp is plum crazy. He’s probably forgotten the whole thing by now, what with The War and –“

“But he’s serious! Padlocked the Royal Kitchen and everything. He’s shipping us all the way across the sea to New Amsterdam, to some place called ‘Manhattania,’ where the chefs are supposed to follow strange recipes with ingredients you can’t even pronounce, let alone find!”

Tom attempted to conceal his utter helplessness in assuaging the weeping and wailing of the love of his life, but if asked whether her distraught condition had been the result of banishment from the only homeland she had ever known or leaving him, he could not have easily answered. Until she answered it for him –

“Don’t let them take me away from you, Tom. I just can’t bear it!” The scullery maid stretched her arms through the narrow openings in the cart as far as they could go. Tom seized both of her delicate, though reddened, hands and squeezed them, then kissed them desperately.

Tom remembered the most fortuitous, sun-sparkling day that they had first met. It had been in the midst of The King’s massive remodeling project, a scheme hatched after Brot had been emboldened by the quasi-successful completion of the damned dam. Every warm Cappoccian body, Tom’s ultra-strong one especially included, had been commanded to do the bull-work: tearing down the bulwarks and the parapets, dismantling and scrapping the very drawbridge upon which Tom had spent the good years of his youth, and filling in the moat with the best earth available in the Kingdom, good Cappoccian topsoil clawed away from already-strapped farms: all for the purpose of fulfilling HRH’s whim for a “many-splintered Royal Reticence,” his desire to “transpose” a hopelessly outdated castle into a modern Palace, worthy of The King’s self-proclaimed greatness. For the involuntary workers, the dreadful task was back-breaking and spirit-killing, until Tom looked down from his shaky ladder to see a girl’s sweet face grinning up at him as she offered him a ladle full of water dipped from a bucket too large and heavy for the slender arms to tote.

“With His Majesty’s compliments,” she said.

“Begrudgingly, I’m sure. A fellow would bet that His Royal Cheapness has stooped to allow us a sip of water only because he can’t afford to have any more workers drop dead of thirst.”

“Oh, come now, Sir – it can’t be all that bad –“

“Well, maybe not now, at this very moment -- “ Tom said, breaking into a smile, immediately and radiantly reciprocated, mutually marking the start of something good and lasting, until –

Until the tyrant, in his latest act of insufferable cruelty, had split the adoring couple asunder, forever separating two halves of what was one devoted heart, now broken beyond repair. Tom was just about to utter something vainly optimistic– - a word or two of wishful thinking –- when the cart suddenly lunged forward, a mere inch a way from his foot. “Tom!” she screamed.

He chased after the cart as far as he could, but in such emotional distress, Tom couldn’t even keep up with the pair of aged drays pulling the rig. There was nothing he could do, and there was nothing he could say, not even some lame send-off. “Yeah,” he thought. “Like, ‘Don’t forget to write.’ As if the poor kid had ever been taught how.”

The clippity-clop of a decidedly younger horse approached, along with a bellowed rebuke. “Hey you- –get out of the way! Stop blocking the –“ Pulling back on the reins of steed, the officer slid off his mount. He yanked Tom around and stood uncomfortably close, the chins of both men nearly touching. “Identify yourself!”

“Who, me? I, uh –-“

“State your name or say your last act of contrition, you filthy vagabond!”

“My name is Tobias Hufstedler.”

“All right, Hogstuffer - – go stand over there with the rest of those sorry sacks of street crap. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your trap shut!”

Momentarily Tom was struck with the urge of making a quick break for it, subsequently to hide in one of the secret recesses within the palace, but the horseman never looked away, not for an instant. Evidently, this officer was a high-ranking one, for when he followed Tom across the road, the other solders snapped to attention, followed by sharp salutes all around. “At ease, Men. What d’we got here?”

Apparently taking the “at ease” order a bit too literally, one of the lower echelon soldiers made a disagreeably guttural sound and spat out a disgusting substance upon the road. “A couple more, Sir, but from the looks o’ ‘em, they’re all gussied up for a night on the town.”

“Or indeed leftovers from last night’s to-do.” The top officer inspected the duo as if he were looking at bargain-basement merchandise. “ I vow, Cappoccia has moved beyond scraping the bottom of the barrel – - now we’re gone so far that we’re arming rapscallions and sissy-faced courtiers. I suppose you’re both eagerly awaiting your own personal rapiers – - the latest thing for the rising young gentleman. Hah! You two would be lucky to score a rusty old, sawed-off mace.”

“Now see here!” protested one member of the recently-conscripted pair. “This is outrageous! I’ll have you know my cousin and I are members of the Nobility. Exempt – exempt, I tell you – and –“

The sergeant officer raised a threatening hand.“Shut your pie-hole or we’ll shut it for ya!”

“I’ll do no such thing! I want to speak to your superior!”

Bending to the side, the sergeant waved his hand, indicating the presence of “Brass.”

“Not that tin soldier. I demand to see Entgleisung!”

“Sorry, that’s not possible, Son,” the high-ranking officer said. “Certainly you must realize that the King’s loyal advisor is quite preoccupied with His Majesty at this most critical time.” He grabbed the sergeant and whispered in his ear: “By the way, has anyone seen the good doctor?”

Tom, who had overheard every word, could have come up with a plausible answer: undoubtedly Entgleisung had already taken off for parts unknown, with a good portion of the Royal Treasury with him. Unless, of course, the villain had somehow met his arguably just deserts. Of course, Tom gave voice to none of this, for he remained, as ever, smart enough to keep his own personal pie-hole tightly clamped.

*
By the 1950s, a new sociological term had evolved for members of a class of disaffected American youth: “juvenile delinquent.” By the end of the following decade, the term virtually disappeared, and by the present day the former adolescents who had been described by the phrase had all grown up to become corporate executives, hedge fund managers, and members of Congress.

**
Not an anachronism! “What the dickens” and similar phrases have nothing to do with Charles Dickens but have been euphemisms for The Devil since at least Shakespearean times. Cf. The Merry Wives of Windsor, III,ii. (From Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.)


TO BE CONTINUED (three more times)

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King – - Part FIFTEEN

It had only been a few hours that the kingdom had begun to accumulate materiel and beef up the number of its infantrymen, but for several years the current ruler had maintained a paramilitary force as a “shadow” component of the regime. Unlike the officially unsanctioned guilds with which every Cappoccian was familiar, the existence of a special, strong-armed unit was a secret unknown to most of the locals, aside from those who directly worked within and around the Palace proper. The people didn’t need to be told that they were already suffering under Brot’s rule, with the Cappoccian version of the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads every day. Were they to learn that the King had at his disposal a previously undisclosed agency against them, they wouldn’t have been the slightest bit surprised; any threat, old or new, was normal. Yet, as under any totalitarian rule, rumors and hearsay rumbled throughout the land; the more that people were kept in the dark, the more they tended to spin mythologies and crank out crackpot conspiracy theories. It was true that The “Vicarians”– - as Brot had dubbed them – - had invaded Cappoccia but did not “occupy” the country as such; instead they had been provided with a safe haven from their multitudinous enemies elsewhere on the continent.

The King had also thrown in a certain percentage of wealth from the Royal Coffers, in exchange for various odd jobs and covert activity for The Crown. To that informal contract the Vicarians had attached an iron-clad rider, requiring that the kingdom issue to them an additional undisclosed fee as a hedge against possible robbery and violence: a form of extortion which much-later generations of the underworld would deem “protection money.” The quasi-mutual agreement was therefore heavily weighted on the side of the Nordic “enforcers,” who were savvy enough to exploit the duplicitous monarch’s braggadocio, avarice, and flat-out stupidity to their own advantage. In popular parlance, the Vicarians not only “had it made in the shade,” but also every known kind of weather–-that is, if one didn’t factor in the matter of accounts receivable.

“By the great Odin it was damned nippy last night! But why is it so bloody hot already?” A small contingent of Vicarians, the leadership core, was making its way across the field behind the Palace. “And from what I hear, things gonna get even hotter. A certain party is itching for war,” said the chieftain.

“No kidding! Who knew the little turd had it in ‘im?”

“All the more reason to shake ‘im down before he blows his entire wad on arrows and whatnot. The tight-fisted twit is into us for a bundle – - past due on his insurance premium and that’s not even countin’ the vigorish on his outstanding balance. I don’t hafta remind you his tab’s taller than he is.”

“Ain’t that the truth, Chief! And it’s gettin’ longer every day, what with us takin’ care of the business with that bony-arsed handler we found on our doorstep this morning –-whatshisface, Engleshaft -- “

“Well, it was only a matter of time before one or the other would fall. I know it, you know it, and the Cappoccian people know it.”

“And today with the boat rental –“

“One of our vessels? What the devil for?”

“Oh, the usual. He’s banishing another bunch.”

“Again?” The chieftain made a clucking sound with his tongue, which developed into a full-scale yelp as he felt something scamper up his back and alight upon his shoulder. With a burly hand, he snatched it off and tossed it to the ground. “I told you not to follow us! Go home! G’wan. Git! “ Then he turned to his underlings and said, “Tell me again whose brilliant idea it was to have a monkey.”

Meanwhile in the town, already plunged into confusion and despair by the ruthless rush to war, more trouble was a-brewing. Every male roughly between the ages of twelve and fifty had been pressed into service, an obligation to which neither the men nor their kith and kin took kindly. Despite the years of taking guff (and worse) from their ruler, the average Cappoccian could be pegged as mild-mannered and “peace-loving”– -in the sense that he tended to mind his own business and avoided all conflict whenever he could avoid it. It wasn’t that Cappoccians lacked patriotism: although they couldn’t stand The King, they loved their country, but they didn’t “love it to death;” certainly not to the point where they’d be willing to sacrifice their lives for the trivial whims of the demented despot.

On top of everything else, the dilatory standard operating procedure had kept the recruits idly standing around for hours amid the collective and contagious sensations of gnawing fear and growing ennui. The little band into which Tom had been thrown was no exception; although the erstwhile shipping and receiving clerk had recently mastered the art of waiting, he was very much aware that no enemy can wear down a guy’s nerves more than boredom. Within the newly-formed ranks of ragtag “soldiers,” whispered curses ran through the lines, followed by louder grousing, finally escalating into a full-scale revolt all across town.

A shout rang out: “Hell, no – I won’t go!” And then another: “Hey, Brot –what’s this for? We don’t want your war!”

Immediately, the authorities in charge of each scrappy platoon scrambled to tamp down the unrest and in some cases threatened to use their own personal weapons against the rebellious recruits, who would undoubtedly strike back. Devoted to duty – or at least relishing their power over the raw (and increasingly “sore”) recruits – - the guards’ assiduity flitted from one rebellious sector to another, like a fickle bee unable to decide which flower to pollinate. Tom, ever the opportunist, read the situation correctly: there was no better time to make a break for it. Thus, “Private Hufstedler” -– the nom de guerre of the recent draftee - – crouched down, broke ranks, and started sprinting away.

“Hey, you! Hogswaddler! Get back in line!” Only seconds after the sergeant had noticed Tom had gone AWOL, he’d lost sight of him.

Tom had headed for the hills – - or the hill, one should say –-where the unwieldy lot of munitions, heavy artillery, and the ancient trebuchet had been temporarily parked. In the middle of the road he nearly tripped over a finely-fashioned saddlebag which had evidently had fallen off a mount – - very likely the one belonging to the General who’d corralled Tom for the armed forces. In any event, the escapee retrieved the lost item and made a mental note to have it returned to its rightful owner when it was prudent – and safe!– to do so. A funny thing happened to him on the way up the hill. Out of nowhere a creature seldom (if ever) spotted in these shires dashed right across Tom’s feet. “Hmmph!” Tom muttered. “Gorilla warfare?”

Upon reaching the crest of the hillock, Tom jumped onto the trebuchet and started climbing again, this time to the top, where he made himself comfortable inside the bucket, which had been previously cranked up and locked into its relatively lofty launching point to allow for easier transport of the medieval war machine. Now it was a makeshift conning tower looking over the entire town. According to Tom’s reckoning, this was the best possible locale for -– ironically -- lying low: essentially he was “hiding in plain sight,” for neither the long-term military men nor the new recruits would ever think of looking up. Their so-called superiors refused to take their eyes off the grunts who seldom broke their gaze, almost always aimed downward to scan for loose change on the ground. Tom was high enough that he could see all the way out toward the bay, where he could just make out the square sail of the Vicarian boat taking his “Gretchen” away from him forever. Weighed down with her loss, he felt as if a cannonball had already crushed his heart, and his stomach burned from the thought of the love of his life encountering sea-borne horrors: whirlwinds and tempests, pirates and The Kraken, or worst of all -- the unspeakable terror that would seize her --should the flimsy foreign vessel lose its bearings, completely missing the New World and dropping headfirst off the edge of the earth –- as she slipped into oblivion.

Tom’s throat felt as if it had been caught in a vise, and his eyes opened their taps full-blast. He sniffed, but at the moment he lacked the ability to forestall an unmanly flow of emotionally-charged liquid. The least he could do was blow his nose. In search of a rag, he reached into his pockets -– empty as usual. As a last resort he grabbed the saddlebag he’d found and rifled through it in case its owner might have a handkerchief for Tom to borrow in a pinch. There was nothing in there that could serve as a snot-sop, but the roll of parchment that tumbled out instead was nothing to sneeze at: the official, actual, bona fide Royal Proclamation declaring war.

His hands trembled at the significance of holding a Really Important Historical Document, even as Tom’s nasal membranes uncontrollably dappled it with dripping mucus. Scrutinizing it carefully, he saw the barely-legible scribbles and scratchy initials of The King, but the latter probably would offer only minimal value on the celebrity autograph market (although there must have existed a possible dealer or two who would willingly pay to have the Royal Signature taken away and burned.) Nevertheless, the item looked legit – except for one glaring omission. Just to be sure, Tom turned the document over and over, upside down. Nope. Nowhere on that crinkly-curly sheet could be found the unmistakable stamp of the Royal Seal, and without that all-important imprimatur -- the crucial cachet –- this war declaration was not only illegal, it was just about as toothless as an old backwoods poacher.

Like a cabin boy shouting “Land Ho!” from a crow’s nest, Tom stood up inside the bucket. With an expansively sweeping motion, he waved the invalid proclamation like a flag. “Hey!” he shouted down to the town. “Hey, everybody – the proclamation’s no good! There’s no war!” Again and again he swung his arms and yelled, but nothing he did or said made any discernible difference in the scene below. In frustration, he almost tore the damned thing up, with the notion of scattering the bits like confetti over the town that finally had reason to celebrate but apparently had chosen to ignore the good news. At last it dawned on Tom that while he couldn’t be seen, he also couldn’t be heard.

The pressure upon Tom was daunting, though it had originated from no one but himself. Even though he’d be the last to admit it, the imperative of spreading the news about the impotent proclamation, coupled with the treachery transpiring the previous day (which at this point seemed like ages ago), imposed way too much responsibility on a guy all by his lonesome. Meanwhile, his fellow commoners lacked the necessary – - for want of a better word -- “intelligence” that would once and for all send packing this cockamamie war nonsense. But it so happened that the Cappoccians had reached what is called in modern times their “tipping point,” at which they needed no impetus other than their own aggrieved sense of justice to demonstrate that they’d had enough.

One of the conscripts strolled over to a stack of arrows, picked up a couple, and broke them him over his knee. In a gesture as dramatic as he could display, he hurled the pieces at the feet of his commanding officer, he said, “That’s it -– I’m done.” Likewise one of his comrades made a big to-do over clogging the business end of a cannon with a great clump of straw, and soon after members of the squad helped themselves to swords and similar bladed weaponry, which they used not as threats against the higher-ups, but as improvised tools to saw through and disable the once-mighty crossbows. Of course, from his vantage point, Tom witnessed none of these isolated incidents of insubordination, but he had little trouble seeing what happened next: contingents of townspeople congregating into one huge clump of Cappocians, like individual inhabitants of a hive congealing into the singular beast of a swarm. Spontaneously, but far too organized to constitute a riot, the formerly- compliant drones transformed into a feverish horde storming the Palace.


The band of marauders from the North had beaten them to it, for they were already inside. “Where are you, you puny deadbeat?” the Chieftain roared, as the party searched every floor, kicked in every door, looked under every Royal Bed.

Somebody mentioned that the minute the Vicarians entered the front door, he had spotted The King sneaking out the back exit. “Just like in the old saying, huh, Chief? Except we’re the perambulator rolling into the hallway, and Brot is “love.”

From every sector of the Royal Residence shouts and crashes bounced off the walls as the crowd went to town knocking over chairs, upending tables, and performing sundry -– and unexpectedly satisfying – - acts of gratuitous vandalism. The taste of vengeance was pretty powerful: when the rebels had decided to smash the Royal Dinnerware and ransack the Royal Comestibles, they stomped downstairs, but upon discovery of the padlock on the Royal Kitchen door, they broke down into tears. Yet they weren’t so broken-hearted that they abandoned the purpose for which they’d come. Immediately they returned to the upper floors of the palace, where they grabbed each Royal Possession that hadn’t been nailed down and tossed them all out the windows, or shoved them backwards down the palace stairs.[B]* Not even the fabled Cappoccian tapestry was sacred; a roguish band ripped it down, balled it up, and pitched it off the Royal Terrace.

“Holy Valhalla!” one of the Vicarians exclaimed. “Who knew the Cappoccians had this much spunk?’

“Ah, Chaos -- I love it!” the Chieftain announced. “Let’s get us a taste.”

“One quick question, Chief – whose side are we on?”

“Ours!”

Without warning, an unnatural noise reverberated throughout the town, if not the entire Kingdom. Not an explosion, actually -- not even a rumble, akin to that of an earthquake splitting the terra firma -- it more resembled a loud snap. The sound seemed to have come from the direction of the damned dam, toward which Tom swiftly turned his head.

From the tippy-top of the dam right down to its base there appeared a distinctly black line, jagged as a lightning bolt. Tom hardly had time to blink before the wavering crack widened at the bottom, opening a convenient gate for a curving wave to gush --steadily and deliberately -– as if a pump had been installed behind the dam to push the water through.

“JE-sus, Mary, and Joseph!” If stopping the war hadn’t been an urgent enough message,alerting the town about an imminent deluge certainly was. Tom yelled, screamed, and despite the dilapidated condition of the ancient trebuchet, jumped up and down. “Flood! Run for your lives!”

By this point the rushing water was making enough of a ruckus to announce its own presence. The Cappoccians made haste to save themselves amid the understandable difficulty of keeping a clear head above the prevailing panic. The rebels who had been bold enough to invade the palace remained there to hunker down, whereas the most pessimistic of the bunch scurried up to the highest parapets and turrets left over from the former castle. Some had retreated to their cottages where they climbed to the roofs, only to fall through the loosely-woven thatch. Many took the option of fleeing to higher ground, namely the very hillock where Tom had earlier landed, and with the munitions already wasting space, the refuge soon became a crowded sanctuary, indeed. In order to make more room -- a gesture more symbolic than useful -- Tom vacated his bucket seat, climbed down, and stationed himself halfway down the hill, on a thick branch of a willow that grew--not up -- but sideways. Both the limb and the fugitive were hanging over the water, close enough that he could have reached down and nearly touched the surface. For Tom, drowning was not more than a mere arm’s length away, but from its own point of view, the water happily gurgled and bubbled as if to proclaim the sheer joy of release after imprisonment behind the up-until-now impermeable walls of the dam.

The liberated liquid kept rising higher, spreading more broadly, running more swiftly. From his tree-branch perch Tom took in a seabird’s-eye -view of the myriad of objects flowing along with the current. Among the predictable sticks, straw, and nondescript detritus, exotic items not usually thought of as seaworthy had been caught up in the flow: various trinkets washed out of the stash of Royal Gifts, which Tom had hauled up the palace stairs the night before the rabble hurled them back down: oranges shipped at considerable expense from the Holy Land bobbing around like tiny, brightly-colored buoys; decorations from The King’s nearly-forgotten Ball, artificial seaweed entwining with the natural species, blue-and-white paper waves meshing around the real ones. Here and there in the mix were the remains of handcrafted Cappoccian souvenirs, including an officially forbidden “Chamber Brot” which, like a miniature bowl-shaped boat, seemed to possess the power of navigation, somehow knowing exactly where it was going in its circular course downstream.

But it was The Water – - the unstoppable flow, the relentless turbulence – that hissed in Tom’s ears, dominated his vision, and terrified him as it rumbled just a mere couple of inches beneath his dangling feet. Sightings of floating objects were becoming rarer, until Tom noticed a bit of debris strikingly different from its predecessors. Whatever it was, it wasn’t an inanimate object passively captured by the inundation; indeed it appeared to be flailing around and fighting the current. At first sight, he took it to be an unfortunate dog, or perhaps a small boar, but as the water pushed this piece of debris closer to the hill, Tom saw it was The King.

“Your Majesty!” Tom cried. “Over here, Sire!” In a rapid motion, Tom swung the massive bulk of his body out of a more-or-less sitting position on the branch, onto which he held with one hand, as he extended his other arm down and over the water.

In turn The King most certainly could see and hear his would-be rescuer, and though he continued to flail and fight the tide-like current, he made no apparent attempt to move toward Tom, and therefore to safety.

Caught up in the urgency of the moment, Tom almost thought of waving his free arm, until it dawned on him that such a sudden, vigorous movement might upset his balance and drop him into the drink, or his wild gesturing could crack and completely sever the branch from the mother tree.(For a willow, it had so far seemed surprisingly sturdy, but how long would its uncharacteristic hardiness hold up?) Without any assistance on Brot’s part, the swirling current deposited the drowning despot directly under the tree branch. A better than even chance of surviving was there for the taking, right above The King’s head -- if he were only willing to participate in his own rescue. Again Tom urged: “Take my hand, Sire! Please!”

It might have been the churning action of the water or its ceaseless buffeting that limited Tom’s view of The King, with his head sinking and popping up at irregular intervals, but Tom could have sworn that The King had answered the previous plea with a shake of his head – - and a defiant one at that. Tom made still another attempt. To access the power to be heard above the thunderous roar, Tom’s voice emanated from the gut far below his lungs. It was loud enough to be heard across the bay in Gentletralia. “For the love of all that’s good and holy, don’t be a fool!”

At that precise point, the steady current kicked it up a notch. Tom blinked, and then dared to look. Aside from the swirls of muddy water and an occasional white cap, all that was visible on the surface was a large circular object, neither sinking nor aimlessly floating, but moving back upstream against the current – - a golden crown, with its bejeweled points twinkling in the still-shining sun.


Atop the hill, a refugee wrapped in an incongruously elegant blanket raised a cup with his water-wrinkled fingers. “Thank ye, dear Lady. You are a good Samaritan indeed.”

“Please –- think nothing of it. It’s the very least we could do.” Geduld’s generosity did not stem from the quaint and –- let’s face it -- condescending custom of noblesse oblige; she would have volunteered to help, regardless of her station in life, though the chances of a scullery maid, say, possessing a private supply of freshly-imported, rich Arabica beans, as well as personal access to a crateful of China cups, would have been decidedly slimmer. “My only wish is that there had been some crullers to offer. Alas, the Royal Kitchen is –- shall we say -- out of commission.”

Unheard above the still-thundering water, there was a faint splash as a thin figure emerged from the roiling water and ascended the muddy hill, slip-sliding all the way. The survivor was, as is said, soaked to the skin, and in this case, even more deeply, yet looked none the worse for wear, even as scores of tiny rivulets cascaded from the hem of the black garment.

Similarly, limp and dripping hair lay flat against her head, though not quite unattractively so.[B]** “Gee, maybe I should’ve never changed out of the mermaid get-up. It might’ve made it easier to swim, right, Keith?”

Astrid turned around. “Where are you? Oh my God! Where’s Keith?” She craned her neck and scrutinized the percolating expanse the color of café au lait and saw nothing. Nothing. She put her palms together not to pray but to position herself to dive back in – - until Sir Valentine Hopewell seized her arm and pulled her back.

“I wouldn’t do that, Miss --”

Astrid nearly spit in his face. “Why? Is that against the law too? I gotta find Keith and nobody’s gonna stop me!” She took a few mincing steps toward the drop-off, but instead of plunging in, she sat down on the muddy crest, put her hands in her face, and wept.

“Oh, the poor child – -“ Geduld said, as she handed Sir Val the last of her blankets, her favorite. “Please see what you can do to comfort her.”

The bodyguard of the Queen –- er, the King’s consort -- sat right down in the mud, without a care about devastating his brand-new, finely-embroidered doublet, custom-tailored by an exclusive men’s haberdasher in Paris. Sir Val gently placed the blanket and an avuncular arm around the girl’s quivering shoulders. “Please try not to worry, Miss. Your - –boyfriend is it? –- will return before you know it. In the interim, I wish I knew how to console -- I know! Why don’t I tell you a story? Perhaps that will help get your mind off things. . .”

Meanwhile, Tom had abandoned his now-precarious perch and climbed the hill from the other equally-muddy side. Although he was, as is said, bone-dry, he appeared agitated, if not down right dazed, yet still retaining enough of his faculties to stagger through the throng of refugees in search of an authority figure with whom he could dispatch the bad-good news about The King.

“. . .And right after he handed the princess the bouquet he had picked, the knight lost his footing, but just before he fell into the river, he uttered his last words,‘Forget-Me-Not’ which to this day remain the name of that pretty blue flowers – –oh no, please don’t cry. I’m so sorry! I certainly didn’t want to make you feel worse–-“ Before Sir Val could say another word, Tom tapped him on the shoulder. “Yes? What is it, my boy?”

“It’s the – The King, he’s, he’s – drowned!”

The glimmering of an discordant grin briefly flashed upon Sir Val’s face, then swiftly switched into an expression intended to convey genuine concern.***

“I tried to save him, Sir, I really did! Oh, why am I kidding myself? I’m a loser, that’s all. A big, fat, yellow-bellied coward!”

Tom slumped down on the ground next to the still-bawling Astrid, who grabbed him by the front of his burlap smock and demanded, “Have you seen Keith?”

“No, why? Is he -– Oh, no!”

Oh, no is right, Valentine thought, glancing over at his own lady-love, who responded with a nod. Sir Val would go to the ends of the earth for her, but her assessment of his abilities was insurmountably high. Indeed, if anybody else needed immediate consolation, he’d have to call for back-up.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Buddy. You couldn’t help him. No one could. And he certainly would never accept a helping hand from a, a –“

“Go ahead and say it: a commoner, you mean.”

“Well, uh, actually -- The King is -–was– - so stubborn. Besides, he believed he was immortal. And just look at all this water! It seems limitless, as if the whole bay will empty out, and lest we forget, there’s a huge ocean behind that. There’s just no end to it.”

Which to Tom meant that the water would continue to rise, not to mention deepen, and would keep on doing so even after engulfing every last man, woman, and child in the kingdom. Not that he cared one way or another whether he survived (especially after losing his only Reason To Live), but he would have preferred not taking everybody else down with him. Alas, they were all doomed: that’s the way the crumpet crumbles, c’est la guerre, Pussycat, that’s all she wrote, unless – - unless he could come up with a way to plug that gaping hole in that damnable, damned dam.

Tom looked down the hill at the raging monster of an enemy, cleverly camouflaged as a fat, silt-enriched river playfully allowing to ride upon its waves an assortment of whimsies, among them the torso section of a storybook-style suit of armor upon which pranced a real-life monkey wearing a crown at a jaunty angle.


*
Anent the items rolling backwards down the palace stairs: a perambulator was not among them, despite the Vicarian’s mention of one in a previous paragraph. More’s the pity, because this thing could use a classy Eisenstein allusion. Alas, The Simpsons beat me to it.

**
Thank you, Douglas Adams

***
Cf. Julia Louis-Dreyfus in Veep (HBO)



TO BE CONTINUED (Just two more to go!)

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King – - The Penultimate Part

Oh, the stench!

The man-made disaster in the Kingdom of Cappoccia had left in its wake a malodorous aura, a miasma of misery lingering over the town like an unwelcome guest immune to hinting yawns. Even to the least discriminating of noses, this wasn’t a singular onslaught of an unidentifiable odor but a series of attacks that besieged the olfactory nerves full-force, nagging reminders of the recent catastrophe with one stomach-flipping smell layered atop another: stagnant water and salt mixed with mud and muck, decomposing fish and the swamp of sewage, seaweed and sodden hay, various scraps of animal offal and awful vegetation rotting together in a disgusting conspiracy, the unexpectedly wretch-inducing reek of already-rusting metal, along with an undertone of mildew, the passively aggressive child of the Mother of All Molds.

This was the nauseous milieu into which a survivor approached, the odors creeping in with stark intensity, as he stumbled down the erstwhile road into town. Although his boots had already been soaked beyond the hope of ever drying out, the man took care to step only on relatively less-wet ground rather than venturing anywhere near the newly-formed changes in the town’s topography: hundreds of impromptu puddles and murky ponds, each a potential hazard with a dangerously unknown depth. There was little the man wanted to do less than to plunge into another body of water (though he badly needed a hot bath.)

Exactly when had the existential crisis happened -– a few hours, an entire day, or longer? A period of unconsciousness – - especially one of indeterminate duration -- can screw up a guy’s sense of time. Even so, the details of his own personal ordeal were as fresh as a oozing sore. Like nearly everyone else in Cappoccia, the man and a devoted female companion had been caught up in the flood. All had been going swimmingly (so to speak) until a thick piece of random driftwood suddenly blocked his path; the obstruction refused to allow him to go over, around, or under itself. Moreover, this errant branch had hitched itself under the swimmer’s neck, as if deliberately impeding calls for help.

With the weight of the wood crushing his voice box, he hadn’t been able to produce the monosyllabic sound of what had instantaneously become the most important word in the world, let alone calling out the two syllables to form the name of his beloved who -- to his infinite relief - – had already made it to drier and higher ground. Meanwhile, he would have been hard pressed to remember his own name. The feeble attempt to dislodge the branch from his throat while keeping his head above water had just about drained him of energy. To make matters worse, it had become increasingly difficult to breathe. Plus, an especially vicious wave, mocking him with a full-frontal facial splash, had robbed him of his hat.

Somehow the current must have shifted, and/or his wooden captor had suddenly acted as a ship’s rudder, for inexplicably the man had been propelled ashore to the bank of the ad hoc river, to be deposited against a boulder which, although knocking him out upon impact, provided him with a relatively safe haven until such time the waters finally receded.

Eventually he had “come to,” blindly staggering around for a few moments before trekking into town (or what was left of it.) In his water-logged boots and still-damp clothes and his formerly-smooth face having reverted to a grove of stubble, he trudged, all the while with neither drastic fears nor unrealistic hopes, amid the obvious handicaps of fatigue and physical weakness. It occurred to him that he couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d had any nourishment, but as approached the town, he vowed that he would never, ever eat again. The fetid atmosphere sucked away every trace of appetite, just as surely as the current had confiscated his cherished chapeau.

The stench overpowered everything, so much so that the other senses fled: there was nothing a soul would dare taste nor touch for fear of contracting a fatal illness that would reduce the historic plagues of Europe to a minor case of the sniffles. Precious little scenery remained to be seen and, as far as one could tell, no human voices to be heard. Any signs of life still extant were minimal, albeit -- in the case of the insects buzzing in and out of the man’s ears – -vexing. A couple of scavenging gulls pecked around the muddy edges of a puddle, from which intermittently bubbled up a joyless croak. The distinct stillness in the air was not the peaceful kind; it was quiet, but oppressive. (1) Even the wind had wisely run away.

Continuing on the once well-defined road downgraded to a sketchy outline of a path, the survivor came across a still-standing cottage, its shutters gone, the front door three-quarters of the way off its hinges, the glistening thatch on its roof slicked down like the mane of a kid prepared for a homespun haircut. Conceivably the interior might still have been fit for human habitation but at the moment, a woman and an adolescent occupied the grey ghost of the front lawn. The mother was kneeling in front of a battered washtub, while the son shared the suds for scrubbing the udders of a uncooperative nanny-goat, registering her objections with a series of shrill bleats.

Suddenly the woman’s face took on an aspect of sheer terror, as if she were witnessing the rapid approach of a second flood. With a shriek, she instinctively reached over and clutched her boy, while out from behind her the man of the house rushed out, wild-eyed and brandishing a bent but still-formidable pitchfork.

“You’ll not be takin’ me son!” he cried.

“What?” Despite the survivor’s groggy state, it was hard for him to ignore his own clammy clothes; it took him a moment to realize that what he was wearing was more-or-less still recognizable as a uniform. The irate papa must’ve thought that he was culling warm bodies for the draft. “I’m merely a member of the Royal Guard, or –- I should say -- was, until I became a deserter – -I mean, conscientious objector. Just a survivor, like yourselves. The name -- the name's --" (It would come, eventually.)

Although he didn’t shake the stranger’s hand, the head of the household ditched the pitchfork, which landed business-end down, the claw-like tines piercing the sodden lawn. “Oh, I keep forgettin’! That’s what happens when you live under the t’umb o’ a tyrant. Well, ‘e may be ended , but the fear lingers on, don’cha know.” He punctuated this with an a capella St. Vitus dance, including, among the usual jittery moves, improvisational slaps to both cheeks, as if applying an equally-stinging elixir after a shave. “Bloody no-see-ums!” he cried, while a small number of midges invisibly fell to their deaths, though presumably the majority clung to their host and continued to chomp. “Can’t say I’ll miss that damned dam,” he added, scratching various areas of his person. “I knew when they threw it together it wouldn’t stand, what with ‘em buildin’ it so fast and on the cheap. Then th‘ other day the cockeyed idea to put heavy ice up there, and then by night to set torches to th’ice whilst forgettin’ to douse ‘em yest’day, while the hot sun beat down– - me dumb little furry beast over there’s got more sense than that! No wonder the damned thing busted.”

“But truly, Sir, you must be grateful that the waters mercifully have receded – “

“Aye, praise the dear saints -– but ‘tweren’t prayers o’ thanksgivin’ that were comin’ out of the wife an’ son an’ me, when we grabbed the wee creature and climbed to the roof to clutch our very lives by the slimmest, slimiest o’ straws an’ the tears flooded me eyes as I watched my quarter-acre all but wash away.”

The traveler stole a stealthy glance down the incline behind the devastated cottage where the patch of land lay under at least a half-foot of fetid brine (2) which – - when and if it ever evaporated -- would become permanently contaminated by an unremovable film of salt, like a microcosmic Carthage forced to kiss its arable days goodbye. The former Royal Guardsman did not mention this.

Even so, an overwhelming curiosity compelled him to broach another highly-sensitive subject. “I hate to ask -- where is everybody?”

“Why at the King’s send-off, o’ course! Soon as we finish the tidyin’ up, the three of us is goin’ up there our own selves. ‘Cause just between you and me and the you-know-what, I wouldn’t miss it for the wor--“

“Enough of this praddle!” chimed in the wife, “ere the wrath of the heavens come crashin’ down on yer poor hospitality,” though the sour expression with which she’d initially greeted the lost guardsman never wavered an inch off her face. With a leg of her washboard, she poked her son’s back. “Dick, fetch this gentleman a bowl of porridge.”

Releasing the goat who immediately scampered into the compromised cottage, the son stood up and flashed a smirk. “One lump or two?”

“No, no, I couldn’t possibly –“ he said, not adding take food from a starving family.

“ Ya sure?” insisted the wife. “It was mostly dry when it came out o’ the sack, and the water ‘twas boiled in didn’t hardly stink a’tall.“

“No doubt, dear Lady, but no. Thank you just the same.” And just the same his stomach did a half-gainer, followed by a somersault.


Some sticklers for tradition and protocol expressed their concerns about the speedy processing of the rituals, but at the same time, the practical streak in the Cappoccian fiber mandated that as soon as the body had been found -– slumped belly-down over a mammoth, mud-encased log -- it would be relegated to its final earthly resting spot with a minimum of delay, for the simple reason that the last thing the country needed was another ghastly odor. Ergo, the once and never-again King Brot the Mendacious was still lyin’, but this time lyin’ in state.

No other event in Cappoccian history had ever brought so many people together. (3) A mix of noblemen and roturiers, the crowd paid its respects (a loose use of the word) as, one by one, courtier and commoner shuffled past the small wooden casket, its lid clamped tight, precluding the possibility of proof as to whether the contents had really, truly expired, a question necessarily left unanswered without the opportunity to ascertain whether the eyes were cross-hatched or merely shut. There was no similar difficulty in the age-old belief about noise “loud enough to wake the dead,” for some of the quasi-mourners and pseudo-keeners conducted their tests by rapping hard on the top of the coffin and running their voices at full-lung capacity.

“Some kings is good and somes is bad, but here lies Brot -- worst!”

“Ain’t that the truth! Good riddance to bad rubbish!”

“So long, you miserable little piss-pot!” The source of the comment received a sharp elbow to the ribs, followed by a hissing retort both from the woman standing next to him. “What? What did I say? I know it’s the same as in Church. ‘Despot’ -- that’s all I said.”

Yet it wasn’t quite like a High Requiem Mass, for the Cappoccian diocese did not see the wisdom of laying the groundwork for another full-scale riot, which is how the Faithful would have responded to what they’d deem a sacrilege. The corporeal remains of the former ruler would, however, be interred in hallowed ground, but planted in a modest plot purged of the near occasion of hypocrisy. No one saw the need to send this soul on its journey with pro forma sanctity. Still –- the officiate solemnly shook his head.

Because all the other priests in the Kingdom had shuttled out of town to attend a Friars’ convention, officiating duties had fallen upon Fr. Brian Brian from the parish of St. James the Neglected Middle Child. (4) “Now, now, boys --what’s with the insults? Perhaps deserved, but a little late wouldn’t you say, considering that the, ahem, departed soul can’t defend himself?”

One of the attendees, who either hadn’t heard or pretended not to have heard the reprimand, cupped his hand over his mouth and, looking down at the still-soggy ground, sent a message to another realm in the nether regions. “Hey! You down there – make room for another customer!”

Fr. Brian’s eyes, though in color a sparkling blue, shot fire. “De mortuis nihil nisi bonum!”

“Uh, sorry, Father, I don’t know from Lat–-“

“ ‘Don’t talk trash in front of the stiff!’ ”

Apparently approving the vernacular translation, the widow nodded, as she sat on the sidelines with her ever-present protector. Both were dry-eyed.

The cleric had enough experience with end-of-life rituals that he had come to the natural conclusion that the primary beneficiary of a Christian funeral was not the so-called “guest-of-honor” but rather the deceased’s immediate “survivors” (the funereal term as normally used, i.e. not in a post-catastrophe context.) The historic significance of this particular obsequy did not escape Fr. Brian’s ken, though nothing in his previous experience had prepared him for such a perverse reaction to a man’s death. In the past he had done his share of comforting grieving family members, consoling them as best as God’s grace allowed him to do, but never in the span of his entire priestly career had he ever encountered an instance in which he’d been called upon to stanch a flow of glee. He would have much preferred to bring comfort to the sorrowful, sad task that it was; so when he chanced to see a young man, with his eyes downcast and his mouth set in a melancholy pose all but crying out for spiritual succor, the priest was relieved to find a duty actually included in his original job description.

Like a loving grandfather, he put a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulders and said,“It’s all right to mourn, my son, but remember, everything is in the hands of Our Lord and His Holy Will –-“

“Easy for you to say, Father, with all due respect. But God called upon me to save that little bas–uh, His Majesty, and I failed miserably.”

“But at least you tried – that was the main thing.” Fr. Brian squinted and stared hard. “Say, aren’t you the young fella who turned back the flood? My goodness! You should be rejoicing along with the rest of us, er -- I’m certain Our Lord wouldn’t mind your indulging in a little pride. After all, you rescued the entire town!”

The young man shook his head. “A guy all by his lonesome can’t do a damned –- I mean, a blessed thing, Father. You’ve got to have help.”

On the fateful day in question, with everybody dripping wet and hunkered down together up on that poor excuse of a hill, their inevitable doom merely temporarily procrastinating as they all gaped in horror at the rush of water that wouldn’t quit, things looked hopeless. Even the normal sunniness of Sir Val’s public disposition had started to dim: ”. . .[A]ll this water. It seems limitless, as if the whole bay will empty out, and lest we forget, there’s a huge ocean behind that. There’s just no end to it.”

“Don’t you think we ought to do something?” Tom replied. “I mean, what do we have to lose?” Within a few precious seconds, he’d come up with a cockeyed plan, which he sounded off Sir Val.

The Royal Consort’s protector stroked his impeccably-groomed goatee. “Hmm. You know something? That’s such a crazy idea, it just might work!” (5)

Within moments, Tom and Sir Val got busy, demonstrating organizational skills that had never before shown their faces in the kingdom. Likewise the kind of cooperative spirit which Tom and Sir Val were able to elicit from the townsfolk, previously paralyzed by fear, bordered on the preternatural, but nebulous Platonic ideals stayed in the clouds to allow for pragmatic solutions.

With an expression registering as much desperation as determination, Tom strode over to one of the pyramids stacked with ancient cannonballs. Having grabbed the crowning one, he had no time to revel in his relief that its companions didn’t start rolling down the hill and splashing and sinking into the water; indeed the tiers of formerly lethal spheres stayed intact. Tom loaded the cannonball into the bucket of the trebuchet and let her rip.

To his eminent surprise, the cannonball followed a smooth projection through the air, and when it fell, it neither exploded nor shattered upon impact, landing squarely at the base of the dam near the breach. He tried launching another; then another. So far, so good.

The men lined themselves up along the stockpiled cannonballs, which they passed relay-style down to Tom, who stood at the ready to drop the black spheres, one-by-one, into the bucket , whereupon the de facto leader with his massive muscles cultivated during the years manning the Royal Drawbridge, cranked the creaking winch round and round, hoisting the bucket upward and upward, launching each payload both outward and downward into the direction of the gaping hole in the dam. Loading, cranking, letting go, pulling down, loading, cranking, letting go, pulling down.

In between shouts of encouragement to the men, Sir Val was beside himself with awe.“Will you look at that? They’re going to block that breach in the dam tighter than a whole army of little Dutch boys with massive fingers!”

“Keep ‘em comin’!” Tom yelled, as the veins in his arms bulged like engorged worms and the volume of sweat on his face began to rival the waters still rushing beneath the hill.

They did keep coming, but in no time the supply of cannonballs ran low, finally altogether disappearing, while the treacherous tear in the dam remained open enough for water to continue to gush through. “You’ll soon be closing the gap,” Sir Val shouted. “Can’t stop now!”

With his back bent over and his hands clenching the handle, Tom turned his head and called for more improvised projectiles. “Gimme some rocks, sticks -– anything!” and upon that command the men on the hillock grabbed whatever items they could find and lift: small boulders, half-rotten logs; some brave souls even resorted to reaching down into the still-flowing current in order to fish out bits of supernatant debris. A miscellany of disparate objects made the trip down the relay line, into the bucket, up in the air, finally landing in the pile doing its damnedest to plug up the hole. Then, when the dam’s gusher finally had been reduced down to a mere trickle, Tom shot off the last payload which hit its mark squarely and shut off the water for good. It was a “Chamber Brot” that did the trick.

Instantly the crowd let out a collective cheer, the sounds of vengeance, salvation, gratitude all blended into one triumphant hallelujah. The townspeople clustered round Tom; they slapped him on the back, and gripped his hand, still shaking from the physical stress.“You’ve catapulted yourself into heroism, Tom,” Sir Val exclaimed.

“Not just me. Everybody pitched in.”

So much for sharing the glory- – the people weren’t having any of it. They hoisted Tom up on their shoulders as if he were an ancient Olympic champion.

Though few would have noted and fewer still would have remembered, that was the scene exactly depicted on the last panel of the Royal Tapestry. After the rebels had ripped the historic object from its designated site and tossed it off the balcony, the subsequent flood had swept it a mere dozen feet from its landing space in the courtyard, where it swirled around a hitching post, getting stuck and stranded there in a pulpy lump after the waters had mercifully subsided.

The unofficial caretaker of the Royal Tapestry wouldn’t have marked the coincidence. Even if the chambermaid had witnessed the real-life incident first hand, she’d probably would never have made the connection, because she wasn’t the sort of gal who bothered herself with details, rather concentrating on the bigger picture of her assigned chores, one of which included beating dust off the cursed nuisance once a year. That the work of art had been all but lately destroyed, essentially eliminating the annual task from her job description, did not occur to her, for when she spotted the sodden lump of cloth on the ground, her natural instinct was to pick it up and salvage what she could. No one had commanded her to serve on the clean-up committee, but whenever she perceived a need, she instinctively pitched in with little ceremony or fanfare. That was the kind of woman Astrid was.

There was, however, another reason: a stiletto stabbing her heart, compelling her to grope for the salve of distraction -– some brainless, menial task, anything that would temporarily deflect her mind off grief. Oh, it was silly, really -– to be bent out of shape over losing someone she’d known little more than a night and a day, but – - the pain was real, just as real as the disgusting stink that had invaded the town. She picked up the tangled mass of damp cloth and tried to separate the clinging folds. The outermost edges of the thing were nearly dry, but devoid of all trace of softness, the rough mementoes of the “hard” water difficult to shake. Just like her sorrow. “Oh, poor Keith!” she said aloud.

Keith. “That’s it!” he exclaimed.

The chambermaid swiftly turned and let out a silent shriek. It was the second time in fewer than three days that someone had mistaken him for a ghost.

“Oh, thank God! You’re all right!”

He picked her up, spun her around, and held onto her for dear life. “I can take care of myself. I’m a big boy.”


Meanwhile, the gathering at the wake was showing signs of breaking up, now that the mourners were pretty much satisfied that the guest of honor had been irrevocably dispatched into the next world. Geduld considered inviting everyone up for coffee and cake as is customary after these rituals until she remembered, once again, that the Royal Kitchen remained locked up tighter than a courtesan’s stomacher. “Not to mention lacking a chef and his staff,” she thought. “If only that pig-headed Brot hadn’t banished -–Ugh! De mortuis nihil –“

“Yuck, the stink’s like to suffocate me!” a member of the congregation groused. “Hey, Father! How’s about smokin’ up summa that ol’ incense for us?”

No. No incense. The Church had reserved the holy vapors only for sacramental ceremonies of the highest order in perpetuum. Standing in front of the casket, Fr. Brian blessed the air above it with his hand pointing up to Heaven, and that was that. So much for the dead; as far as the quick, he looked over at Tom, the unlikely hero, and shook his head in wonder about the omniscience of Our Lord and His Mysterious Ways. A humble wretch like that, a commoner, elevated into heroism, but then -- lest we forget the lowly stable in Bethlehem, couldn’t get more humble than that, could we, but certainly that had been a special case, an Extremely Special Case indeed. Yet here he was, an ordained priest, having racked up decades of ministering to the Faithful, and despite all those years of sporting the tonsure and the cowl and the sandals, never gaining the slightest clue of how this world runs any more than that big goofy guy who’d suddenly discovered in himself the power to stop the tide. Yet wasn't he, Fr. Brian, forever a duly-anointed priest after the order of Melchisedech, hence the more qualified? Uh-oh, the seductively wiggling finger of the sin of pride, venial at the very least, veiling a potentially mortal one. He’d have to remember to mention it to his confessor upon the friars’ return from Retreat all renewed and fired-up with the Spirit.

Tom happened to take a long view toward the bay, where he spotted the tell-tale square sails heading out to sea. “Looks like the Vicarians are making a hasty exit.”

“No doubt,” agreed Sir Val. “Most likely in search of a new meal ticket. But they neither require nor deserve our concern. On a brighter note, aren’t you pleased that we’re all safe– and” (sotto voce) “out from under the thrall of you-know-who?”

“I guess so, but look at that ungodly mess over there.”

“A veritable edifice wrecks, I’ll warrant. Give it time, though, Tom. Some day the Cappoccia River will revert to its natural course, and we can dismantle the remains of the dam once the original stream regains its muscle memory.”

“Well, I wish me own muscles would forget the pain and burning from twisting that bloody winch – - Say, look who’s here! Hail fellow, well met as they say -“

“Yeah, thanks Tom, I’m alive, we’re both okay, and so forth.” Though Keith was out of breath, he talked fast. “Listen, Astrid found something really significant –“

“Uh-huh,” she said. “The ancient tapestry-- well, that old rag’s a goner, it came apart at the seams, but this thing was inside. We couldn’t make heads nor tails of it, Keith and me. But we knew this gentleman was good with stories and the like, so maybe he could cipher it out for us.”

“I’ll certainly give it a try, young lady.” Sir Val took the stiff oblong cloth and squinted at it. “Hmm. It’s like a palimpsest, only rendered with cross-stitching rather than with ink. The letters are a bit hard to make out, the flood waters must’ve made the dye run. Looks like some lines of verse.” He read them aloud:



In this is sewn the happy fate
of the laughing boy who cranked the gate
and hauled the parcels up and down
for one who falsely wore the crown.

He tried to prove the tell-tale page
of foolish war ne’er to be waged,
and when the waters washed the town,
to save the cur destined to drown.

Failing at both, he did instead
stop the flood at its monstrous head.
Much he deserved his new renown,
all lauded and lifted up off the ground.

For the kind queen, the choice would be
Corrina, from across the sea,
With this man, of mind and body sound,
your new and truthful king was found.

The moment he finished reading the lines, the crowd didn’t know how to react–- were they supposed to applaud the poetry reading or what? As for Sir Val himself, he turned pale. The knight’s hand began to tremble, nearly dropping the stitched cloth to the ground, where subsequently his knees also dropped, as he softly proclaimed, “Your Majesty!”

“Huh? What? What happened here?”

Keith, who’d lately learned not to stand on ceremony, slapped his buddy on the back. “This means you’ve gone way up in the world, Man! It's all right there in blue and white.You’re The King!”

“No, no – none of that stuff applies to me. Nope. Not me. No, sir. I don’t even know anybody named Corrina. (6) I’m not the King.” Oh, but would that he were and would that mumbo-jumbo prophecy had said “Kitchen Gretchen.” But it was all moot, for by now the love of his life was in all likelihood on the bottom of the sea, scrubbing the barnacles off Davy Jones’s locker. "I'm no king."

“Indeed you are, Tom -- er, Sire,” pronounced the priest. At that precise moment, a totally out-of-place monkey emerged from out of the shadows and jumped directly inside the friar’s hood. Fr. Brian reached back and pulled it out. “Get out of there, you devilish beast! One day an old maid will lead you round the circles of Hell!” (7)

Tom made a mental note that if indeed he were the king (incredible as it seemed) and if that missing Royal Seal ever resurfaced, his first official act as monarch would be to outlaw
cruelty to animals.

And just when the former King’s funeral had begun to wind down, at last starting to assume an air of sedate propriety, a character dressed in disheveled motley loudly broke into the scene. “ I just stowed away on a Barbary pirate ship and boy, are my yardarms tired! Home at last!” (8) He sniffed the air and made a disgusted face. “Ho-lee saints in heaven! Who cut one?”

The new king’s eyebrows hit the top of his head; his mouth hung open. “Dad?”





(1)
A recurrent comment in 20th century American films– - “It’s quiet. Too quiet.” The line fully qualifies as a cliché, but according to the Trivial Pursuit board game, it is not the most common line of movie dialogue.

(2)
Not quite the same as what American homeowners in the post-mortgage crisis era mean by “underwater,” alas amid similar hardships.

(3)
“Give the people what they want and they’ll come out for it.” – Quip attributed to Red Skelton, at the funeral of a movie mogul (either Louis B. Mayer or Harry Cohn, or both.)

http://msgboard.snopes.com/cgi-bin/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_topic;f=32;t=000457;p=0

(4)
Located exactly midway between the two other Cappoccian parishes: St. James the Great and St. James the Lesser.

(5)
See FN (1) Although it’s also a stock line of dialogue, it still isn’t the Trivial Pursuit answer.

(6)
Apologies to: Bo Carter, Joe Turner, Maurice Williams, Chuck Willis, Ray Peterson, et al.

(7)
Much Ado About Nothing, II, i.

(8)
Immediately following the climax of the famous The Simpsons two-parter, “Who Shot Mr. Burns?” Krusty the Clown bursts through the courtroom door and shouts, “I just flew in from Vegas! Did I miss anything?”

TO BE CONTINUED (just one more time.)

[AuntShecky]

The Lyin’ King – - Conclusion

Plink, plink, plink. The King was in the counting house, counting all his money. Straight and stately, like a scale-model of a Greek column, each stack of gold sovereigns stood high enough on the table to hide the monarch from view. At this point in his inchoate reign, he was serving as his own Chancellor of the Exchequer. As he tallied up the prodigious value of the golden bankroll, The King assigned to each vertical pile an “earmark”: this one for completing the clean-up of the accidentally demolished and deliberately unmourned dam, that one for a “double wedding,” covering all expenses to be incurred anent the celebration of the unions of the first Duke of Rockenwood, Lord (the former “Officer”) Keith, with his future Lady (née Astrid, the former chambermaid) and that of Sir Valentine Hopewell with The King’s aunt, Geduld. The tallest stack of money was to be distributed to the good sisters in the parishes of all three St. Jameses to establish schools for young Cappoccians, especially female children whose education in previous regimes had been sorely neglected, indeed, summarily outlawed.

Though he was much too modest a guy to admit it, it thrilled him to his bones that he had acquired the power to do such good works. Every once in a while, he had to remind himself that he was indeed the ruler of his country. To be thrust into a position of a world leader was far beyond his immediate understanding; certainly only a madman would have possessed delusions of such an elaborate elevation in status. Yet here he was issuing sensible Royal Proclamations and attending to delicate affairs of state, such as forming an alliance with the ever-peaceful kingdom of Gentletralia. His lifelong vocation had beckoned him to a career in the entertainment business, namely tossing out quips and quirks in exchange for exquisitely satisfying laughs. Albeit a dream of upward mobility had never approached the outermost borders of his mind, his passions decidedly leaned more toward comedy than geopolitics, though some have argued to this day that the fields are identical.

As the King reached for the first group of coins to deposit them in a clearly-labeled leather bag, an unannounced presence blocked his sight: a set of somewhat chafed but decidedly feminine hands covering his eyes accompanied by a dulcet voice chirping “Guess who?”

“Lady Godiva?”

“Nope.”

“Johanna the Mad?”

“Guess again.”

“Uh– - Gertie from Mesertie?”

The lady responded with a sigh.“Aw, how soon we forget!”

When The King stood up and turned around, his face took on a beatific glow, as if he’d been suddenly snatched up to Heaven, thereby returning to an earth made more radiant from the journey. He pulled her into an embrace that simultaneously expressed relief and gratitude to God, not to mention an earthier emotion, the robust flame which -- despite his sad and previous belief that the couple would ne’er reunite – - time could not extinguish. Several minutes later, he composed himself enough to speak. “Where? How? When did you back?”

“Oh, you would not believe it. That Vicarian tub got us all the way over there, we were right smack in the harbor, not two feet away from dry land. But the Dutch wouldn’t let us in! Nobody had a groene kaart. So we had to turn around and come all the way back! Not that I wasn’t thrilled - – don’t get me wrong. Ooh, I almost forgot! We had a layover in London. There was a used bookstore right on the wharf, so I picked up this little souvenir. Of course, I can’t read anything, but the bookseller recommended it.” The girl handed him a small volume, its cover stained and battered, the frayed binding weeping strings.

“Oh, how thoughtful of you. It’s right up my alley. See?” He pointed to the title. “Joe Miller’s Jest-Book.”

“I’m sorry it’s a little shopworn –“

So are the jests, the recipient thought. “That’s all right. Thanks so much.” He kissed her once again, this time on the sunburnt forehead -- briefly, for fear of losing his place in the conversation. “That reminds me, Sweetheart -- you’ll never guess who else has come home! My old man. What a card! You’ve got to meet him. He’s a real pisser –-“

“I heard! Some folks in town filled me on everything. But Tom -- or should I say ‘Sire?’ Look at you! Didn’t I tell you that you’d come up in the world? Though I can’t really say you’re dressed for the part.” She referred to The King’s less-than-optimally-fitting doublet, uncomfortably snug in places, tight around the sinewy shoulders.

“Yeah, I know what ‘cha mean,” he said. “Sir Val gave me some of his garments. Just haven’t had the time to get fitted for a wardrobe yet. All the trappings of this king-stuff are all new to me, and – - hey, where’d ya go?”

She was nowhere in sight, until he looked down to see her on her knees. In her hands she wielded a pair of scissors, snipping at the hems of his hand-me-down garments. “Don’t mind me. Just taking care of loose threads.” Grabbing the edge of the table, the pretty visitor stood up and for the first time noticed the huge display of cash. “Wow! I see that the little weasel left behind a ton of dough - –“

The King shook his head. “ Pfft! Gone. Every farthing. All divvied up and returned to the rightful owners, the Cappoccian people.”

“So where did all this come from?” Her waving arm inadvertently nudged the top of one of the golden towers. More than a few precious coins tumbled to the floor, tinkling like a bell announcing a very, very good day for the sweeper.

“Oh. Well, there was this deed addressed to You-Know-Who, but knowing the property was a real craphole, I realized that The King, er– - Brot, would take it the wrong way, so I decided not to deliver the deed for the sake of the donor’s safety. I’d forgotten about the damn thing, what with the Royal Ball and the proclamation of the phony war, the rebellion, the Big Flood, and then finally discovering that I was actually The Ki –- well, to make a long story short –“

“Too late!”

“ Very clever, Gretch. Ranks right up there with the chicken crossing the road. Or the one about throwing the clock out the window. Anyway, Morty –- you remember Morty, don’t cha, Hon? – went down to my old quarters to salvage whatever personal belongings had made it through the Flood, and what do you know, he finds the deed. Imagine that – the water washed away all of my stuff – every stitch, including the suit of armor that –“

“Huh?”

“–-but somehow that deed managed to make it through Hell and high water. But here’s the beauty part, my love – - that swampland happened to be the site of a fortune in buried treasure, and –- get this – - the deed was spelled out not to ‘Brot’ but to ‘The Current King of Cappoccia.’ Voila! “ Now it was The King’s turn to make the sweeping motion, but without toppling down any of the stacked coins. “How about that, huh, Gretchen? That was some lucky break - – surely! “

“I’ve told you a hundred times, don’t call me ‘Shirley.’ “ The woman’s glance took on a sudden seriousness. “And, uh, don’t call me ‘Gretchen,’ either.”

The King pushed back the front of his crown, as if it were an ordinary cap; he scratched his head like a flummoxed gull from out of town. “I don’t get it.”

“I didn’t get it either, at first. ‘Bout four long, long years ago the thugs came a-poundin’ at our door. Just before they dragged me away, as me mother held me tight for one last hug, she whispered in me ear. ‘My dear, dear daughter,’ she said through her tears. ‘Whatever you do, don’t ever, ever tell anyone in the castle what your real name is–‘

“ ‘All right, Ma, I won’t,’ I said, but why? ‘

“ ‘Never mind,’ she cried. ‘Just keep it to yourself. Promise me!’ Well, I promised all right-- after all, this was me sainted Ma. I never did tell anyone my real name, not even you, Tom. Of course, I wondered and wondered what in heaven’s name that was all about. Then, just last month on the voyage back over here, I couldn’t hardly sleep at’all, not with the excitement of thinking I might see you again, Tom. But with the stars twinkling above in the purple sea of the sky, and the waves hitting that creaky old Vicarian ship rocking me to sleep, I finally fell into a deep, dark slumber. I had this dream-- well, maybe it was more like a memory bubbling up to the surface. I was about four, five years old. Me ma was telling old stories about our family.“

“Me ma said that when she was still carrying me, and sitting in the very same rocking chair where I was sitting on her lap, her mother -– me grandmother – - was working on her needlepoint. Grandma was the most famous seamstress in all the land, so she’d been commissioned to stitch in thread the words of something Very Important, a Sacred Prophecy so secret that she had to swear on her immortal soul that she’d never breathe a syllable of it. Even so, she told me mother what name to choose for my Christening, once I was born. ‘Call her Corrina,’ me grandmother said. And that’s exactly what happened, Tom. I am your Corrina, Corrina, from across the sea.”

It took a while for it all to sink in. Then in a flash his face brightened like the rising sun; it was as if the All-Loving God had sent down to Earth a little piece of Paradise as a gift for the devoted couple. Shipping and receiving: the way it ought to be. The King took his beloved into his arms and kissed her again. And again. “I’ll never let you leave my side,” he vowed.

“Never?”

“Well, all right, but only when you have to use the chamber pot. “ Still more hugs and tender busses. “Let me ask you something -- what d’ya say about you and me as the third leg of a Triple Wedding?”

And so began the long, prosperous, and graceful reign of King Thomas the Truthful and his Queen, Corrina (the once and never-again scullery maid formerly known as “Kitchen Gretchen.”) With a loving hand and an open heart they ruled good-natured people in a contented realm where no one ever told a lie, except to protect against hurt feelings and, of course, whenever somebody wanted to tell a good joke.





THE END

[AuntShecky]

Forgive the blatant self-indulgence in "bumping" this, in case anyone wants to post a comment before Fairly Flailing Tale #3 appears, which I hope will occur within a few days.

[AuntShecky]

Brazenly "bumped" in search of comments, since another Fairly Flailing Tale is coming soon to a computer screen near you.

[cafolini]

Brazenly "bumped" in search of comments, since another Fairly Flailing Tale is coming soon to a computer screen near you.

The club swings on and Aunty out puts a birdie.

[AuntShecky]

Simply because I feel like it -- I'm bumping this.

(So sue me.)

[DATo]

Nicely bumped Auntie ... and just in time for me to offer my compliments.

I can visualize this story as a play or even a Broadway musical. A beautiful combination of A Connecticut Yankee In King Authur's Court, Don Quixote, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead and ... errrr .... Oklahoma !!! *LOL*

Long, but lotssa fun to read.

[108 fountains]

Hi Auntie,
I'm not ignoring this, just taking my time enjoying it. I'm about halfway through so far. Don't know when I've read something so bursting with energy.
Reading it is leaving me breathless.

[AuntShecky]

Thank you, DATo and 108 Fountains, for taking the time to read and comment on this lengthy piece.

[108 fountains]

I've been doing 2-3 chapters a day except on weekends. Have three chapters to go. The strongest overall impression I have is the amount of energy in the piece and secondly I would say is the unique style, both of which make it enjoyable reading. I'll need a few more days to put more thoughtful comments together.

[108 fountains]

Auntie,

As I mentioned earlier, what struck me most strongly is the incredible energy of the writing in this story. I was left breathless at the end of each chapter. The non-stop humor, the convoluted, rollicking plot, the wild vernacular of the speakers, the ever-present allusions (the footnotes were much appreciated; I caught many other allusions that were not footnoted and probably missed many more), and the sheer zaniness of the characters and their situations all combined for an entertaining, farcical, fun-filled read.

Reading the story was in many ways like watching a Marx Brothers movie or the Three Stooges. At other times it was like watching a cartoon. The characterization of the story as one of Auntie's Fairly Flailing Tales and the title “Lyin’ King put me in the frame of mind to expect something along the lines of old Fractured Fairy Tales of the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, which I always enjoyed, and the story lived up to that expectation.

Writing humor that works is, I think, really difficult, and the humor here works, but rather than fill up this space with laudatory comments, I imagine you would probably appreciate some constructive criticism, so here are a couple of suggestions:

My main criticism, and my only real criticism, is that I think the story goes on too long. The problem with most comedy movies that I’ve seen is that they need to fill up 90 minutes or more. Even the best Marx Brothers movies tend to languish toward the middle. The more modern comedies, with Will Ferrell, Steve Carell, Jim Carrey, and Adam Sandler, share the same problem of having to deal with a plot rather than focusing entirely on the humor. The 1987 Ishtar is one of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen - for the first 30 minutes, and then it just flounders. I think Laurel and Hardy, W.C. Fields, and the Three Stooges made their “shorts” for a reason - it’s hard to keep ‘em laughing very long.

In the case of “The Lyin’ King,” it does not languish or lag anywhere; the energy and the humor continue straight through, but it just seems to go on a little too long, which may be why the earlier chapters received many more comments from readers than did the later chapters. You could probably make revisions to take out some material, although I’d be at a loss to suggest what. It appeared that you were posting each chapter as it was written, so I suspect that if you went back and looked at it again as a whole, you’d find areas to cut.

The only other criticisms I can offer are really more a matter of taste, and every author and reader has his/her own tastes, so I won't pretend mine are any better than anyone else’s. One example is that because the characters were all sort of cartoonish characters, I was not able to identify or sympathize closely with the main character or any of the other characters. But I don’t believe that it was your intention to develop strong or complex characters here; it would not have been in keeping with the purpose of the piece, which was humor. (Although I will admit that I began to sympathize with Tom at the end when he was reunited with Gretchen. If you were to do a re-write, I would suggest emphasizing the character of Gretchen more and her relationship with Tom more at the beginning, since it becomes such an important piece at the end.)

I did catch the allusion to the old song, Corrina, Corrina, and enjoyed that part, especially the phrase “from across the sea” (which is not in the Bob Dylan version of the lyrics). But I have to say, the last verse embroidered into the old tapestry totally confused me:

For the kind queen, the choice would be
Corrina, from across the sea,
With this man, of mind and body sound,
your new and truthful king was found.

I thought you were talking about the queen, er… the Royal Consort Geduld in the first line ("the kind queen"). I know that you made a point throughout the story of not referring to her as the Queen, and now I know why. But even then, I was confused at first reading. However, I think you could easily clear up the confusion with a bit of rearranging and a couple of small word changes to that last verse as follows:

With this man, of mind and body sound,
your new and truthful king was found
And for his queen, the choice would be
Corrina, Corrina from across the sea.


I also felt like you missed an opportunity for satire with the character of the King - where else have I seen a national leader who sometimes stumbled over his words and who brought his country into an ill-planned war for dubious reasons? I tried, but was unable to find other parallels between the King and the real life persona, so again, I think that was not your purpose. (Although it’s possible that, because I missed some allusions, there may have been some satire that I also just missed.)

The sort of modern, urban dialect of many of the characters was incongruous to the fantastical, medieval setting, but that, I’m sure, was intentional as part of the humor. The only danger is that it might be overdone, but again, for purposes of humor, it’s the overdoing that makes it funny. (I’m working on a story of my own where the main character has a humorous, heavy North Carolina/Tennessee accent, and I’m concerned that you and Calidore will think that it is overdone.)

I could go on and on picking out things that I enjoyed, as well as things that I thought could be improved, but then my comments might be longer than the story itself! I’m looking forward to the next installment of Auntie's Fairly Flailing Tales.