Scilly Seasons

by Chris Tookey

“Well, I’m sure,” said Morgana. “And what’s good enough for an Empress’s daughter is certainly good enough for you.”

  Wyrd pondered. Her argument certainly had some validity. It might be bad manners if he refused her.

  “Thanks,” said Wyrd, with a show of gratitude that he certainly didn’t feel.

  He took the tube, put it tentatively between his lips, let the smoke enter his mouth, his throat and… he was just thinking about where the smoke would go next, when he was convulsed by a coughing fit. He bent over, and was a little unnerved to discover that by the end of it the girl was stroking his back.

  “Sorry!” he spluttered.

  “That’s all right,” said the girl roguishly. “Everybody has to have a first time. Notice anything?”

  “You mean, apart from the room going round and the colours being brighter?”

  “That’s good,” said the girl. “Some people don’t get the full effect till they’ve had a few.”

  “Whoa,” said Wyrd, who wished that the room would stop spinning. He put out an arm and was embarrassed when it landed on one of the girl’s breasts.

  “You’re a fast worker,” she said.

  “Sorry,” he replied, taking his hand away.

  “No need to be sorry,” she said, taking his hand and putting it back on her breast. “I’m Morgana, by the way.”

  “I’m Uther.”

  “You already told me that.”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said.

  “You say sorry a lot,” said Morgana. “That’s terribly British.”

  “You’re not British.”

  “Mother says I’m Roman. But I don’t feel Roman. I feel more… I dunno… pagan.”

  “Isn’t your mother a Christian?”

  “She pays lip service to Christianity on account of her mother, you know – Aelia Placida?”

  The name meant nothing to Wyrd, so he just nodded knowledgeably.

  “Grandma was very devout, you know. Built all kinds of temples and churches to Christ. But my mother doesn’t really worship anything other than herself.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, surely,” objected Wyrd.

  “No, really. She doesn’t care much about anyone,” said Morgana, removing his hand from her breast.

  “Doesn’t she care about you?”

  “She cares when the things I do reflect badly upon her, but otherwise she pretty much leaves me alone.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  Morgana had taken the dreamweaver, inhaled a few times, sunk back on Wyrd’s pillow and was gazing up at the painted ceiling.

  “You have no idea how boring it is here,” she said. “I have no one my age to talk to.”

  “You have me,” said Wyrd.

  “Not for long,” said the girl. “It’s a good thing I have my magic and dreamweavers to, I don’t know, take me out of myself.”

  “Oh yes,” said Wyrd, remembering, “Osprey is going to give you some lessons in herbology.”

  “That’s my mother’s idea,” said Morgana. “I don’t need any lessons.”

  “You might need herbs,” said Wyrd. “My friend Wenda is really good at collecting herbs.”

  “Oh, she’s your friend, is she?” said Morgana. “I thought she might be. She’s quite pretty, in a boyish sort of way.”

  “Oh no,” said Wyrd awkwardly.

  “You don’t think she’s pretty?”

  “Well,” said Wyrd. “Ah. Um. I don’t really look at her in that way.”

  “Maybe you should,” said Morgana, leaning across and running her fingers up his inner thigh. “After you’re done with me, that is.”

  From outside, there came a strange clanging, booming noise that made Wyrd jump.

  “Oh dear,” said Morgana. “Sounds like you’re going to be saved by the gong.”

  “What’s a gong?” asked Wyrd, puzzled.

  “It’s summoning us to dinner,” said Morgana. “Don’t worry, I’ve made sure you’re sitting next to me.”

  She handed him the dreamweaver and signalled for him to take another puff.

  “Shouldn’t we be going down?” he asked.

  “There’s no hurry,” said Morgana. “They won’t start without us. Go on. It’s a shame to waste it.”

  ***

  Wyrd wasn’t sure what to expect as he entered the Empress’s dining room a few minutes later, with what Wenda later described as a stupid grin on his face and “that floozie” hanging on to his arm.

  A large banqueting table, perhaps, with tall chairs drawn up to it, as at Castle Otto? Or, he thought, might it be more like his parents’ hut in Dumnonia, with the diners sitting cross-legged on the floor around a fire?

  One thing he wished was that the room would stop revolving.

  He was not expecting a low circular table of massive dimensions, groaning with food, with sofas around it of varying sizes. Eight of these seats were small and clearly constructed to accommodate dwarves. All but one of these were filled, as were three others.

  The Empress Honoria lay on one sofa in a dress of the most sumptuous gold brocade. On her right stretched Osprey, in what Wyrd recognised as his least moth-eaten toga. On Osprey’s right was Wenda in a toga similar to the one that had been laid out on Wyrd’s bed. Wyrd noticed for the first time that Wenda had rather nice legs, before Morgana jerked on his arm and directed him to the sofa on the Empress’s left. The young princess sat down on the vacant sofa next to Wyrd.

  “Let us all rise,” said the Empress.

  When everyone had arisen, she turned to Osprey.

  “Perhaps, Mr Osprey, you would be so good as to say grace.”

  “In Latin, naturally,” Osprey replied.

  “Of course,” said the Empress.

  Osprey cleared his throat.

  “Benedictus, Benedicat per Iesum Christum Dominum Nostrum,” he intoned.

  “Amen,” said everyone – including Wyrd, although he, unaware of the need to respond, was slightly late.

  “Please be seated,” said the Empress. “Let me introduce you all. Dwarves, these are our guest. Guests, these are my dwarves. Oh, and over there is my daughter, Morgana.”

  She turned to face Wyrd, and with a hint of accusation in her voice:

  “But I detect that you two have already met.”

  For some reason Wyrd found himself with a desire to giggle.

  “You could say that!” he gurgled.

  He looked at Morgana, but she was staring straight ahead, apparently unable to look at anything except the food.

  Wyrd was vaguely aware that his mouth had become dislocated from his brain, and he was saying things that possibly he shouldn’t. But he couldn’t help himself.

  “What’s with all these dwarves?” he asked. “And why is there one missing?”

  There was a sharp intake of breath around the room.

  “Uther,” said Osprey grimly, “perhaps you are overtired from the journey. It might be better if you were to go straight to your bed.”

  “Not tired!” said Wyrd cheerily. “Not tired at all! And I could eat a horse. By the way, what is that thing? It looks like a horse!”

  Wyrd pointed at the centrepiece on the table.

  “That,” said the Empress icily, “is a calf, fattened especially in your honour.”

  Wyrd looked around him at the others and decided the atmosphere could do with lightening.

  “Whoopee!” he exclaimed.

  “Uther…” growled Osprey, rising from his sofa as though he would like to throttle him.

  “Please,” said the Empress, “I suspect that I know what is affecting your friend’s composure.”

  She glared across at her daughter, who was retaining her studied gaze at the contents of the dinner table.

  “I am sure,” continued the
Empress, “that he will regain full control of his faculties in a moment or two. Or three.”

  “Maybe so,” said Wyrd, truculently, “but I’d still like to know about these dwarves.”

  The dwarf nearest him cleared his throat and rose to his feet. He had a shifty look in his eyes

  “Look, Empress, no sweat, no pack drill. Maybe it would help if we introduced ourselves, know what I mean?” he said, and he turned to Wyrd. “I am Fortunatus.”

  “Lucky,” Morgana muttered to Wyrd out of the side of her mouth.

  “And I am Avarus,” said the fattest dwarf.

  “He’s Greedy,” said Morgana.

  “I am, um, er, Sollicitus,” said the thinnest dwarf.

  “Nervy.”

  “Eructicus,” said a red-faced dwarf, stifling a belch.

  “Windy.”

  “Hel-lo, my darling young people,” drawled the fifth dwarf, looking in Wenda’s direction and winking. “I am called Erecticus.”

  “Pervy,” said Morgana. “As if you couldn’t guess.”

  “I,” said the most well-dressed of the dwarves, with a formal bow, “am Punctilius.”

  “Picky,” muttered Morgana.

  “And my – atishoo – my name is Mucus,” said the last of the dwarves, wiping his nose.

  “Let me guess,” said Wyrd. “He’s Sneezy.”

  “Sneezy was his father,” said Morgana. “We call him Snotty.”

  “Isn’t there one missing?” asked Wyrd, pointing to the empty sofa.

  “Ah. Yes. Er… That would be, er, Plumba,” said Lucky, shiftily.

  “Plumba?” said Wyrd. “Isn’t that something to do with lead?”

  “It means Drains,” explained Morgana.

  “Drains?” repeated Wyrd. “I think I’ve met him. Pink moustache and beard? Knows a lot about transport?”

  “That certainly sounds like him,” said Pervy, with a hint of stiffness in his manner.

  “So, why isn’t he here?”

  The dwarves turned to look at the Empress.

  “He comes and goes,” she said. “We always reserve a place for him at table, but more often than not he prefers to be elsewhere.”

  “Oh yes,” said Wyrd, “doesn’t he work for Merlin?”

  There was another sharp intake of breath around the table.

  “I don’t think that my brother,” said Osprey, “is a proper subject for discussion at any polite dinner table.”

  “Why not?” demanded Wyrd, who right now didn’t care what anyone thought of him and certainly didn’t give a fig for court etiquette.

  “Because,” Osprey hissed, “Merlin is the enemy of all things Roman. He insists on supporting the tyrant Vitalinus. And his machinations endanger the entire imperial future of Albion!”

  “Well, Drains obviously doesn’t think so,” said Wyrd cheerily. “He’s off working for him right now!”

  “That’s enough!” hissed Osprey.

  “What a lovely home you have here, Empress,” said Wenda, hoping to draw attention away from Wyrd’s gauche behaviour.

  “One does one’s best,” said Honoria with a sigh, “but I fear that it is hardly Rome. There’s no place like Rome.”

  “Home, surely?” giggled Wyrd.

  “Uther!” said Wenda, before turning once again to the Empress. “So, how long have you been living here?”

  “Seven years, is it?” asked the Empress vaguely. “I don’t know. I lose count.”

  “Of course, this place wasn’t always like this,” said Fortunatus. “We were very fortunate that the Empress came along. Before that this place was just a shack.”

  “One room downstairs, one room upstairs…” said Sollicitus.

  “No room for a decent kitchen,” said Avarus.

  “And only two beds,” said Erecticus, winking again at Wenda.

  “Which was no joke if you were in bed with Eructicus,” said Greedy.

  “Or Erecticus,” added Mucus, feelingly.

  “You can talk,” said Erecticus. “It was no joke being sneezed over by you all night long.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said the Empress, “I don’t think our guests are interested in the sordid details of your sleeping arrangements.”

  “So, when did all this happen? Who built all this?” asked Wenda.

  “And who paid for it?” Wyrd asked, still not caring if he was being rude or not.

  “Uther!” said Wenda.

  “Look, can I leave the table?” asked Morgana.

  “But you’ve hardly eaten anything,” said her mother.

  “I’ve had enough,” said Morgana. “I don’t want to get fat, like some people.”

  Under her contemptuous gaze, Avarus shifted uncomfortably.

  “Why don’t you stay and join in the conversation?” asked Honoria.

  “Because I’m not interested,” said Morgana. “I’ve heard this story a million times before, and it’s boring.”

  “No it isn’t,” said Erecticus. “Most people find it fascinating.”

  “Well, I’m not most people,” retorted Morgana, crossly, “and I’m going to bed.”

  So saying, she left the room.

  It was the Empress Honoria, an accomplished hostess, who broke the silence after her daughter left.

  “She must be feeling peaky,” she said. “Now, where were we?”

  “You were about to tell us, I think,” said Osprey, “how you came to build this splendid house in such unpromising surroundings.”

  “You really wish to hear about it?”

  “Yes, please,” said Wenda.

  “If it isn’t too boring,” added Wyrd.

  “Only a fool would find it boring,” replied the Empress, witheringly. “Ah well, you may as well hear about it, since it will need to go into my memoirs.”

  And with that, she began on a story that was as extraordinary as any that Wyrd had heard.

  15

  Snow White and the Eight Dwarves

  In which the Empress tells a tall story

  “It all began with my being sent into exile,” said the Empress Honoria, “for reasons that need not detain us. But the main responsibility lay with my brother, the Emperor Valentinian. He envied my looks – my skin as white as snow, my lips as red as blood, my hair as black as ebony. He spent hours in front of our enchanted mirror, saying ‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of us all?’ And naturally the mirror, being truthful, told him ‘Valentinian, you’re fair, it’s true, but Nivosa Alba is fairer than you.’”

  “Nivosa Alba?” asked Wenda.

  “That’s Latin for Snow White,” said the Empress. “It was my pet-name since childhood, because of the paleness of my skin.”

  “So, your brother became jealous?” said Osprey.

  “Yes,” said the Empress, “and he wanted me killed. Our mother, however, was dying, and she managed to persuade him that having me killed would create a scandal, and so he exiled me here to Atlantis, or as we Romans call it Scillonia.”

  “Which is where we come in,” said Fortunatus.

  “One reason for sending me here,” said the Empress, “was that Valentinian knew very well that I had practically no chance of survival – what with the wolves, the bears, the harpies—”

  “To say nothing of the vampires,” added Sollicitus.

  “To say nothing of the vampires, indeed,” agreed Honoria. “So I was delighted when I happened to come across a modest cottage—”

  “Belonging to us,” said Eructicus with a belch. “Pardon.”

  “At first I thought it was deserted,” said the Empress, “Little realising that the inhabitants were at work.”

  “Tin-mining,” explained Fortunatus. “At that time we were tin-miners.”

  “I was so tired that I went to s
leep on one of the two beds upstairs,” continued the Empress, “and that is how the dwarves found me.”

  “We couldn’t believe our luck,” said Erecticus, lasciviously. “A beautiful young woman, completely at our mercy.”

  “They put me to work immediately,” said the Empress, “cleaning and cooking, and, well, things that I’d rather not go into.”

  Erecticus chuckled, but stopped when the Empress shot a withering look at him.

  “But of course,” she continued, “I was completely unused to the way of life. I began to concoct ways of making a fortune so that I could employ others to work for me. And then it came to me.”

  “It was genius,” said Avarus, “sheer genius.”

  “Not really,” said the Empress. “I simply asked myself, what is there around here in abundance that other people simply don’t have?”

  She looked at Wyrd, daring him to provide the answer.

  “I don’t know,” said Wyrd. “Bears, wolves?”

  “No, no, no. You must have noticed them on your way here,” said the Empress. “Flowers. Moorland flowers. Woodland flowers. Seaside flowers.”

  “I don’t think we really noticed them,” replied Wyrd.

  “Tut-tut,” the Empress admonished.

  “We did have other things on our minds,” said Wenda.

  “Like being chased by harpies, attacked by sea serpents, that kind of thing,” added Wyrd.

  “Ah well, there you have it,” sighed Honoria. “Some of us have vision, the talent, the entrepreneurial flair. Others do not.”

  “To cut a long story very short,” said Fortunatus, “the Empress took us out of tin-mining and into the florist business.”

  “We began growing flowers for export four years ago,” said Fortunatus, “and we’ve never looked back.”

  “Atlantis is now the largest exporter of flowers anywhere,” said Avarus. “Our products go all over the world – to Gaul, Germania, Hispania, Italia, North Africa, even Phoenicia.”

  “We’ve been very, very lucky,” added Fortunatus, “but basically it’s all because of our very own Snow White.”

  “Aren’t you leaving something out?” asked Wyrd.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked the Empress.

  “You must be leaving something out,” said Wyrd. “According to your story, you arrived here on your own. Yet now you’re here with your daughter.”