Sacred Wind: Book 2

by Andy Coffey

  *It should be noted that curries do have the power to move themselves, in a sort of shuffling motion that makes crabs look graceful. They can also jump several feet in the air when the mood takes them, although this manoeuvre can often lead to spillage. However, the more affluent curries, or curries of high standing, generally employ servants to carry them from place to place.

  As Charles provided some uplifting trumpeting to accompany Roisin’s angelic singing, music and conversation made the time race by, and soon the large iron bridge of Alford came into view. ‘It looks like news of our visit has spread fast,’ Oldfart said. ‘Somebody’s put up a banner.’

  Draped across the bridge was a huge, white banner with big, red letters that said ‘Welcome Sacred Wind, and May Odin Bless Your Wind’. As Ethel moved closer to the bridge, Aiden spotted who was holding it. ‘I can see pigs up there,’ he said to Smid.

  ‘Aye, well, this is pig country. They don’t tend to mingle much as yet, possibly because they haven’t been officially recognised in the way sheep have. They’re lobbying the Welsh Parliament for formal recognition at the moment, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed.’

  Ethel drew to a stop and Agnar jumped onto the bank to take care of mooring duties. A small crowd were congregated outside the pub, fronted by a well-dressed pig. ‘A great welcome to you all!’ he shouted, with cheers and applause ringing out as the Companionship made their way down the gangplank. ‘Allow me to introduce myself; I am Archie Backrasher, the proprietor and your host this evening. If you’d all like to come this way, I’ll take you to your rooms. Your ship will be quite safe; we have twenty-four hour security.’

  ‘Much appreciated, Mr Backrasher,’ Oldfart said, extending his hand to Archie. ‘I’m Oldfart by the way, we spoke on the phone. Have you prepared the room for the press conference?’

  ‘Indeed I have, Mr Olafson. I have set out tables in the Gammon Suite on the ground floor and everything is arranged in the way you requested. Given that it’s just before 5:00 pm, I would be expecting the press to be arriving in the next hour.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Oldfart said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘It would appear that the legendary hospitality of pigs is well-deserved.’

  Oldfart had drawn up an itinerary for the evening, which involved the press conference as 6:00 pm, followed by dinner in the pub’s Snout Restaurant. The band had also agreed to play a short ‘unplugged’ acoustic session in the main bar in the evening, and had asked Charles to join them on trumpet. ‘Bless my clacky hooves, what an honour. I’ll be blowing like a crazy sheep,’ Charles had said, when Oldfart had suggested it.

  The Gammon Suite was very plush with a thick, red carpet covering the floor. It had a spectacular chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the walls were adorned with various paintings, some of well-known pigs. A large table, draped with a white tablecloth, had been placed at the far end of the room, facing the rows of chairs that had been set up for the journalists and guests. Oldfart had meticulously arranged everything with a professionalism that somewhat belied his happy-go-lucky persona. He’d also gone to the trouble of preparing ‘character profiles’ for the band, which he’d asked them all to learn, and which they were expected to relate to the assembled press.

  Archie had prepared drinks and snacks for the journalists in the bar, and awaited Oldfart’s signal before allowing them into the Gammon Suite. He’d also arranged for some music and sound effects, at Oldfart’s request, as well as dry ice machines and lighting. So, as the journalists piled into the room they were greeted by rumblings, thunderclaps, flashing lights and a floor that was knee deep in mist.

  ‘Okay, are you all happy with your profiles?’ Oldfart asked, as the band waited in an adjoining room. Nods all round suggested this was the case, but Agnar was still reading his, frantically trying to commit it to memory.

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright, Agnar?’ Oldfart said.

  ‘Yes, yes. I’ll be fine,’ he responded, unconvincingly.

  ‘Now, not a word about Ophelia or the Baron,’ Oldfart said. ‘If we get any questions, deflect them. We need to play this by the book, so it’s simply all about the tournament, okay?’

  The band nodded, although Olaf’s nod was a second or so after the others.

  ‘Right then, I’ll go and introduce you.’

  Archie pressed a strategically-placed button that set off two large flashbombs and Oldfart marched into the room, carrying a long wooden staff. As he stood in front of the tables and raised it in the air, the flashbulbs of the assembled press competed with the pyrotechnics and light show. Oldfart made a flamboyant gesture with his left hand and the top of the staff caught fire.

  ‘Today, I welcome you all as friends in these dark times,’ he boomed. ‘Four great warriors have accepted a challenge to test their musical prowess against the best of the best. Tomorrow, at the Cestrian Music Tournament, they enter the arena with their weapons of rock and metal to take on all comers, and they will have the gods on their side!’

  A giant thunderclap filled the room.

  ‘So, ladies, gentlemen and sheep of the press, I give you SACRED WIND!!’

  The band entered to cheers and more flashbulbs, joining Oldfart at the large table at the end of the room. ‘I would now like to take this opportunity to introduce each of these great warriors. Firstly, please put your hands together for the lead vocalist and lead guitarist of Sacred Wind, Olaf the Berserker!’ Oldfart roared, as Olaf raised his right fist in the air.

  ‘My weapon is the broadsword and my steed is called Night Shadow,’ Olaf said, in a thunderous voice. ‘Together we ride into battle, hacking, slashing, growling and bottom belching until our enemies flee into the night, their weapons abandoned and their pants fragrant. I have no fear of the living, the dead, or people from Bangor. I laugh at the dark gods and urge them to attack with power, and then I unleash the force of my wind to strike them down. The skies crack with thunder, lightning illuminates the fields and the rain hammers on the ground… but my wind prevails. My cheeks of power triumph with their mighty roar. Victory for Odin! Victory for Asgard! May your sword stay sharp, may your women be comely, and may your poppadom bowl be full!’

  The Companionship all stood and applauded. ‘Go for it Olaf, let’s give it up for the poppadoms!’ shouted Vindy.

  ‘Oh, Vindy, I do love you,’ shouted Tikky, over the din, ‘but be careful or you’ll end up dripping on the carpet.’

  As the applause died down, Oldfart continued. ‘And now, please let me hear your appreciation for one of the finest drummers in the land. When he plays, the earth shakes, mountains move and the Devil does it in his pants. Put your hands together for Agnar the Hammered!’

  Agnar raised his hand in the air rather meekly, his nerves clearly visible on his face. ‘My weapon is the hammer and my steed is called Thunder Hoof. I pound the drums and… er…’

  Sensing Agnar’s failing memory, Oldfart whispered in his ear. ‘You splinter your enemy’s shields with the force of the storm. Mighty is your hammer as it slams down, crushing sinew, bone and steel...’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Agnar continued with a bit more gusto, ‘I splinter my enemy’s shields with the force of the storm. Mighty is my axe, sorry, hammer, as it slams down, crushing sinew, bone and steel. Even the dead flee my charge, as I ravage and plunder anything in my path. I also enjoy moonlight walks, butterfly watching and candlelit dinners…’

  ‘You fool,’ Oldfart whispered, as the assembled press appeared confused. ‘That last sentence is from your “Viking Lonely Hearts” profile.’

  With a final flourish of desperation, Agnar rose to his feet and lifted his hammer into the air. ‘All hail to mighty Odin! May his beard be free of badgers and may he fart in many directions. Woooarrrggghhhhh!!’

  ‘I’m not letting him do one of these again,’ Oldfart whispered to Grundi, as Agnar milked the generous applause.

  Next up was Grundi, who gave an impassioned speech about the nobility of rock and metal, the joy of shredding gu
itar and his unrequited love for Frigg, which resulted in more tears from Mr Kneepatcher.

  Smid finished off by speaking about his rumbling bass bottom-end and his fondness for leather, before twirling his axe around his head, accompanied by more pyrotechnics. ‘Right,’ Oldfart said, as the smoke began to clear, ‘if anyone would like to ask any questions, please feel free.’

  A small man with a large Fedora hat raised his hand, and Oldfart beckoned him to stand up. ‘Sam Hollandaise, Chester Bugle & Gazette,’ he said. ‘Why do you think that Baron Blacktie has put aside his hatred of rock music and allowed Sacred Wind to enter the tournament?’

  ‘Good question,’ Oldfart said. ‘The Baron told us that he feels it is time to loosen the shackles of musical bondage and allow people to judge for themselves. Next question, please.’

  ‘Dick Swizzler, from Belting Rock magazine here,’ a thin man with enormous hair and a denim jacket shouted. ‘Is it true that Sacred Wind have actually sacrificed penguins on stage and ate their brains, while performing unspeakable acts with cauliflowers?’

  ‘No, there is no truth in that,’ Oldfart said.

  ‘Oh, maybe it was a just a dream after all,’ Dick said, with a glassy-eyed smile.

  ‘Sid Scribbler, North Wales Beacon,’ said a short man with a handlebar moustache and protruding forehead. ‘I notice that Queen Ophelia is not with your party. I’ve heard a rumour that she’s been kidnapped. Can you verify this, please?’

  Olaf looked at Oldfart, who nodded his assent for him to answer. ‘The Queen is fine and is resting at present. She will be joining us in time for the tournament tomorrow, and she will be travelling by an alternative, secret route.’

  ‘Well done, that was excellent,’ Oldfart whispered.

  Questions were then fired from left, right and centre by the enthusiastic throng.

  ‘Are the band really Vikings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do they really pray to the gods by farting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does Agnar have a girlfriend (asked by a sexy female journalist from the Llandudno for Ladies magazine, who received a very nasty look from Roisin)?’

  ‘Not at the moment, but he does have a special someone in mind,’ (which saw Mara smiling at a slightly blushing Roisin).

  ‘Have they ever thought about creating their own fashion line?’

  ‘Not as yet, but we are giving serious consideration to “Blast from my Ass” underpants.’

  ‘Is it true that on every full moon they have a wild party and dance naked around a campfire thrusting their weapons into the air?’

  ‘No… at least not every full moon.’

  After around half an hour, Oldfart sensed that the press conference had achieved its aim. ‘Right, we have time for one more question before we dine.’

  A bearded man with a long, leather coat raised his hand. ‘Mike Mosher, from the Chester Musical Tribune. Does the band think they can actually win tomorrow, given the stiff competition and also the lack of familiarity that Chester has with rock music? It will sound very alien to many people in the audience.’

  ‘That’s a very good point,’ Oldfart said. ‘But I believe we can win. I feel the people of Chester will hear the passion and the power of Sacred Wind and that this will touch their souls and nostrils like never before.’

  The Companionship roared its approval and a spontaneous round of applause spread throughout the room. ‘And with that, ladies, gentlemen and sheep, we bid you farewell for the time being. We hope that we can reconvene in two days for what I’m certain will be our victory celebration.’

  However, just as the members of the press began to vacate their seats, there was a small skirmish by the Gammon Suite entrance and three pigs entered the room, holding placards which read ‘Equality for Pigs,’ ‘You Can’t Stop the Chops’ and ‘Hug a Pig Today.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Olafson. I tried to stop them,’ Archie said, rushing over to Oldfart, ‘but they insisted on being allowed to speak.’

  ‘Good people, we have a message that must be heard,’ the smallest of the three pigs said. ‘My name is Percy and I speak for the Porcine Order for Recognition and Kinship, more commonly known as P.O.R.K.’

  The little pig placed his placard on the ground and raised his trotters aloft. ‘Firstly, I would like to wish Sacred Wind well for the tournament tomorrow. You take with you the good wishes of all pigs,’ he said, to a generous round of applause.

  ‘Next week,’ he continued, ‘the Welsh Parliament will debate the “Porcine Equality Bill”, and we hope you will give us your support in finally putting a sword to the myth that all we pigs like to do is to have a good wallow in the mud.’

  ‘But we do like a good wallow,’ said the larger pig to his left.

  ‘Er, yes,’ Percy said. ‘As my good friend Chopper has just stated, a good wallow is very important, and its therapeutic powers should not be underestimated. But, we pigs are also keen to be recognised for our love of literature and the fine arts, of sports, of politics and of philosophy. Indeed, as the great George Porkwell said in his acclaimed novel “Beast Ranch”, we are all equal!’

  Smid led the applause and it was at that point that he caught the eye of the large pig to Percy’s right. He studied its face for several seconds, trying to reconcile the features with an image he had in his mind from many years ago. As the pig returned his stare, it too seemed to share the recognition, and then their eyes went wide as the memories fell into place. ‘Daddy Smid?’ said the pig.

  ‘Crusher?’ said Smid.

  ‘Daddy Smid is that really you?’ said Crusher.

  Smid came from behind the table and headed directly for Crusher, who was nearly as tall as he was. ‘You’ve grown so big. I never thought I would see you again,’ Smid said, as tears began to well up in his eyes.

  ‘Me too Daddy Smid,’ Crusher said, as his eyes also filled with tears, ‘I have missed you so much.’ And then they embraced and the crowd cheered.

  ‘I still have your letter,’ Smid said. ‘I’ve never even opened it.’

  ‘Why, Daddy Smid?’

  ‘Because I always hoped that one day we would meet again and that you would do me the honour of reading it for me,’ Smid said, handing the letter to Crusher.

  Crusher hugged Smid again and opened the letter. ‘It still has stains from my tears, Daddy Smid,’ he said, and then he began to read.

  ‘“Dear Daddy Smid, we are going away now. Mum tells me we will be living with my uncle Tim, who is very nice and kind but farts a lot. I will always think of you, Daddy Smid, and I will miss the way you cuddled me when I was sad and tickled my tummy to make me happy. I love you Daddy Smid and will miss you forever, yours sincerely, Crusher”.’

  The two embraced once more and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. ‘Are you crying, Oldfart,’ Grundi said, as he wiped his eyes.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ Oldfart said, defensively. ‘It’s just all this dry ice making my eyes smart. Anyway, let’s go and have something to eat, I’m starving.’