The Lyin' King-- Part Four
“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!)
The Lyin' King--Part Five
“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
The Lyin' King --Part SEVEN
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
The Lyin' King-- Part Eight
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
The Lyin' King-- Part Nine
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:
Quote:
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
The Lyin' King-- Part TEN
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
The Lyin' King--Part ELEVEN
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 - - - -
The Lyin' King--Part TWELVE
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 ---
