The Regret, A Besh Adventure

“Hush.” Chic.

Trumpets blared, sounding tinny over hastily constructed radios. Every Tappish manor in the new Papal Compound had one. The hour had arrived, the dawn of the new order. A static rustle brought the long-awaited introduction of Tappish spiritual leadership.

“Ho! All Dalops, Polops, and Widgins of this present world. Bend an ear to his most reverend Papal Pomposity, Pope Alabow Fetiboo the First.”

Another radio rustle, notable for its urgency, brought Pope Fetiboo to the microphone.

“Faithful fans, ardent adherents, loyal lackeys, I, Pope Alabow Fetiboo the First, have come to you, my people, bearing spiritual enlightenment for your scant and miserable souls.”

Melodramatic pause.

“I have prepared a brief Papal Bull suitable to this most inauspicious event. So, bend an ear, or I’ll bend your heads. When I say Papal Bull, I mean Bull!”

The Pope droned on interminably. Thetis Sposhly Tru tore open a soft mood melon, careful not to disturb the obediently attuned of his manor, and shoveled the cool, sweet meat beyond his lips with a broad thumbnail. Fetching a tidynap from the kitchen counter, he dabbed at the wiry fur beneath his mouth, then belched.

He had not intended such a hardy blast; nevertheless, it was his manor. Where better to pass an air? Holly Thine, Chic’s visiting sister, turned from the radio and speared him with a look of stern disapproval, raising his hackles. Any noise he made was infinitely more comprehensible than the blathering that poured from the radio. Such endless torrents! How long had it been now?

“Such a windbag!” Sposh complained. “If he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, how can the two of you?”

Chic waved him to silence. “Hush.”

Sposh deflated instantly, slumping in the hard-backed stool. What more could he say? The wife had spoken. A silent sigh, a docile shrug, these were all his arsenal. Such a life! The old axiom was true: The wife is the man of the manor. Sposh was nothing more than the average husband, subject to the whim and power of the edge.

He roused. Time to away. Such a job! Five hours on bare feet, for the Pope brooked no sandals in his newly-built Palace of glass, staring into middle space, unable to raise the shrill voice; unable to flee, like a mudder, from the Pope’s incessant drivel. It was a job that left him irreparably drained. Sposh was a Throne Guard. His single consolation was relieving his brother, Snotis Sposhly Tru.

He hated his job. He hated his life. He hated his cumbersome leather jerkin and his heavy leather helm. But what could he do? He was doomed to shuffle the rest of his life between Palace and manor. Like the dograt, he was thrown a bone, given a pat on the head, and then forgotten. Where was the dignity?

Still, in all, he had to admit, there were Palace employees who had a much rougher time. As he reached the front door, tightening his gear, taking his spear in hand, Sposh remembered poor Whiske Botel, who walked through a new glass wall and was cut in half. Mrs. Botel put Whiske’s ashes in separate urns.

Yes, some had it tough, and there were tales that still caused his fur to stand on end, but Sposh had it tough enough. He was a Throne Guard. The brain-numbing chatter, the idiotic schemes; these, and more, were his lot.

And, all the Papal Pamphlets! Sposh sagged beneath the possibility that the Pope had run off a new batch of pamphlets. Every mandatory purchase of a pamphlet meant one less ale at Old Drafter’s Pub.

Such a dry throat! And, if it ever got out that Pope Alabow Fetiboo the First, that great and magnanimous spiritual leader of Tappish souls, that raving megalomaniac, was actually his cousin . . .

“I’m gone,” said Sposh.

“Shh!” hissed Holly.

“Bye,” said Chic absently.

As Sposh closed the door, the Pope was saying, “All things are delivered unto me.”

Sposh tugged on the hedgewood door until it was snug. He leaned his spear against a tightly thatched and whitewashed wall to adjust his gear, making sure his tail fit comfortably through the back slot. His tail was not as big as a mudder’s, but it was his tail. It always had his back. He made sure his ears fit through the upper slots of his helm and cinched the chin strap.

The morning sunlight was yellow as he stepped into pedestrian traffic. Sposh sniffed the prevailing breeze; the pulp factory was in the wind. Working tongue into overbite with clicking sounds, Sposh attempted to dislodge a tiny mood seed. His clucking went unnoticed by the hurried and harried, the frustrated stream of husbands on their daily pilgrimage to the market. From the manor, just down, old Exmuz Tree trotted past, belly jiggling, greeting Sposh in a huff of native Tap.

“D’Dochda,” said Tree.

Sposh answered in Terran, “All day to you, Mr. Tree.”

Sposh set his spear across his shoulder and merged with the torrent of neighbors who would ultimately spill into the market. They fled from whitewashed manors and wives, seeking the various shops, pubs, and freedoms of the inner city. Though young, Sposh knew well the zeal of daily pilgrimage. Wives had the edge, but husbands had their jobs, and however fleeting, there was a tangible sense of self-rule and dignity.

Yes, Plaza Fetiboo, with its many shops, its pleasant pubs, and stimulatories, was a bastion of male supremacy. It was permissible in the inner city for a Polop, or a Dalop, or even a Widgin to imagine that it was a Polop’s, or a Dalop’s, or even a Widgin’s world. There was dignity in work. There was sympathy, support, and ale at the pubs, and many a Dalop pinned his hopes on the Pope’s visionary plan for the future.

Plaza Fetiboo was a broad flat circle of tenacious weeds, stunted trees, and ruts of worn bare clay. Makeshift booths of outland dealers commanded the plaza’s center, with the rattle of something new, the excitement of strange candies, and the odors of odd spices. Today was a stage for new actors. Whispered gossip filled the plaza with sounds like flying insects.

Unfamiliar wares hung heavy on the booths, the familiar ruts were packed, and Sposh could sense the excitement as a corporeal entity that vibrated with its own life. The market bustled with fervent trade and noisy good cheer.

Many new Polops from the outland districts were in the city. Most were Sposh’s age. They were young, fool-eyed, and eager to be sealed. Clueless, they walked in circles in an all-male market. Eventually, they would almost certainly find themselves at a recruiter’s office. Many of late had migrated from Uda Con’s Kingdom of Shahshr to Alabow Fetiboo’s Kingdom of Brohm. The Papal compound, Canivat City, seemed particularly thick with them.

Sposh walked the cobbled outer ring of shops that enclosed the market on the south, west, and east. Plastered to one of the many storefronts was a glaringly bright poster. The Pope was not blind to the influx of young males. The ad called for able-bodied Polops to enlist in the Brohm military. Prominent on the ad was a young Widgin dressed proudly in the Brohm national colors. Widginship meant citizenship, and citizenship ensured Dalopship.

The ad scene boasted a smiling mate and three small pups in tow. A bold slogan announced, “Wear a Uniform. Get Sealed.”

The grizzled barrel chest of old Drafter caught Sposh’s eye. The pub owner tossed a bucket of swill into the grass beside his sterling establishment. Sposh hastily jumped out of the way.

“Sorry there, lad,” old Drafter said with a grin.

Drafter was a Polop from the lower continent, and as far as Sposh knew, he had never been sealed. He was a happy soul, quick with a smile, and always eager to refill a mug. Drafter was dressed in his usual black breeches and red apron. The proud pub owner was never seen without the yellow band on his left arm.

Sposh hailed him. “All day, Drafter. How are you?”

“No problems,” said Drafter. “Where’ve you been? We’ve missed you.”

“Well,” Sposh began to say.

“Never mind,” said Drafter dismissively. “I guess you’re not the only guard what comes to me.”

Sposh scuffed his feet in the rut beyond the cobbled walk. He said through drooping whiskers, “It’s just. Well. I’m always short on riffmarks.” Sposh looked up with a hopeful, but foolish grin, and finished. “I’ve plenty of unread pamphlets. Don’t suppose you’d take some in trade?”

Drafter sadly shook his head. “Sorry, lad. Useless paper.”

Sposh stared morosely at his feet. Such was the life of a throne guard! Paid off in shiny paper you couldn’t use behind a bush. Old Drafter startled Sposh with a sudden laugh and a slap on the back.

“Tell y’ what,” said Drafter. “Tomorrow’s my birthday. You come by and have one on the Drafter.”

The unwarranted charity humbled Sposh. He cleared his throat and choked back his embarrassment. “Thanks, Drafter.”

“Never mind that,” said the Drafter, as he turned back into his shop. He called over his shoulder, “Try getting a real job.”

Sposh answered the empty doorway. “Yeah. That’s what Chic says.”