by Kamilla Reid
Tamik burst into tears. She was a very natural actress. And this was not her first soliloquy. “Oh grandma, grandma! I’m so sorry! Forgive me! Forgive me!” She fell to her knees. Root, Lian and Dwyn blinked. They had been as surprised as Mathelopolick, who jumped back in horror.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s uh…” Root stammered.
“You took my grandmother’s antique writing Quill. It’s all I had to remember her by and now…now it’s gone!” Tamik howled in dramatic agony.
“What? What is she prattling about? That shiny feather with the silver middle? Gauche thing, it is.”
“Uh…”
“ My grandmother made it with her very own hands, the same ones that raised me single handedly when my parents left me to the jungle howlers!” Real live tears burst from Tamik’s eyes. It was very impressive.
“This is preposterous. I am sorry about your grandmother but it has nothing to do with…”
Another burst of tears. This time, not female.
Even Tamik was shocked as Dwyn threw his fist into the air. “Curse you! Curse you dark night! My beloved’s heart breaks and now I shall be left alone!” He’d done his own fair share of acting back home, even getting an ‘A’ in drama.
“Alone? Why ever for?” The director was drawing into the drama.
“Because without her grandmother’s writing Quill, we can’t….sign the…marriage…vows.”
“Marriage vows?” Everyone said.
“It’s uh.…an Ekladian thing.” Dwyn quickly added.
“Oh my! You’re Ekladian?” The director perked up. They thought they had him but oh, did the tables turn. “Then that Quill must be worth thousands!”
When four people panic at the same time, it can be very chaotic. Which it was. Not to mention ineffective. The director was about to give them the cold scapula…but as luck would have it…
“Sir Mathelopolick!” They all turned to see a very short skeleton in a cropped wig walking toward them. “I’m afraid we’ve all discussed the matter and have come to the conclusion that unless Rexford is released from the role of Silken Oxback, we shall not continue in our services.”
“What? You can’t do this to me!”
“I’m afraid we have no choice. He simply cannot be tolerated. Why, just now he stole the fur from Aliston’s costume and added it to his own. And when he was confronted, he said the lead must have the better appearance.”
“But even with an extra strip of fur, he’s practically in a paper bag, Edwonk!”
“Yes, well, that’s all there is for it, sir. We stand united in this.”
“But you’ll ruin me. We could lose every last dime in advanced tickets alone for this!”
“There haven’t been any sold, sir.”
“Yet!”
No answer.
“Look, Edwonk. I know he’s difficult but believe me when I say, if I had an understudy I would this very instant…”
“Done. I accept your offer, Sir Mathelwicky.” Dwyn stepped forward.
“What? This is preposterous. You’re what, fifteen and you think you can be Thurston Silken Oxback, the most ferocious beast in the…holy mother of Butnick eating a log!”
Dwyn was rather pleased with his Molding. He’d made extra efforts on the horns and a bullring, of course. “Here’s the deal, Mackawonka.” He said with a mighty Silken Oxback voice. “I do the role and you give my darling dearest the Quill.”
“But that Quill is worth…”
“Trust me.” Root stopped him. “With Dwyn Puffler in the role, you will make more than enough money! Every girl in DréAmm will see to that.”
The door swung open. A tall skeleton in a paper bag with a length of fur attached approached. “Sir, I was thinking that scene three could use a bit of a trim. Perhaps Isadora’s role could be eliminated. That would allow me a bigger moment for…”
“Done!” The director shook Dwyn’s hoof.
The Guardian of DréAmm, Studaben Picklepug was late. And he was cranky. “For the love of salt, what is going on out there?” he demanded to his Secretary, Slim Pulpit. “There’s a line up all the way down the main corridor.”
“Seems there’s to be a theatrical production of some sort and one of our own is starring in it.” Slim Pulpit said.
“A theatrical production? Well, see about getting me two tickets. Can’t pass up a public appearance now can we.”
“No siree, sir.” Slim Pulpit stubbed out his cigar. “You have one Miss Ginovane Borealis to see this morning.”
“Ginovane Borealis. Who on earth…?”
“Quest guide. Formal complaint.”
“Oh her. The one with the eyes that are too far apart. Gives me the willies, that one. Any chance of rescheduling?”
“’Fraid not, sir. She’s right behind you.”
Picklepug turned around to face the scowl of Ginovane Borealis.
Slim Pulpit slipped away into some filing matters. He had become very good at slipping away into filing matters.
“Ginovane! How wonderful to see you!” The Guardian smiled with gritted teeth.
“Remind me to file another complaint when we’re done, Mr. Guardian.” Ginovane spewed. “One about your manners!”
Picklepug swallowed. “Forgive me, Madam Borealis. I have had a most difficult bout with illness. This is not a reflection of my usual interactions and I assure you that I am not only sorry but, as I look upon such an exquisite countenance, I am also mistaken.”
“Wow. He’s good.” Root said with a strained expression.
“What? Who?” Lian asked.
They were sitting at a table. Hundreds of people were lined up in front of them. Down the corridor Tamik had her loudspeaker shell, advertising the Skullk show and shepherding the crowd at the same time.
“Sh!” Root said. “I’m eavesdropping on the Guardian with my Quatra.”
“On who?” Lian asked, then turned to a ticket purchaser. “Hello. For how many?”
“The Guardian.” Root whispered.
“What? Is that allowed?”
“I highly doubt it.”
“Well, I don’t think you should be. You could get us in a lot of trouble, Root.”
“It’s that team guide. The one I overheard in Vulcherk’s Cooking Court. She’s filing a formal complaint about the team member who went to the Zero-th Floor. This could be our proof.”
“Hello, for how many?” Lian asked the next in line then, intrigued, turned back to Root. “What’s she saying?”
“Well, if you’d stop talking to me, I could concentrate and tell you.” Root skewed her eyes and turned slightly away. “She’s telling him everything…even the Dark Arts part.”
“Names! Is she mentioning names?” Lian pressed.
A gawky girl approached. “Hi, I’m Trancy Jahobees. I’d like fifteen tickets, please. And can you tell me if you are offering back stage passes? My friends and I are huge fans of Dwyn…I mean, the theatre. Oops! Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry about that! Will it stain?”
“Just forget it!” Root scowled at the girl. She could care less about the orange Chuck now dripping down her shirt, she had lost the entire conversation! Lian got rid of the girl, making no promises of backstage anything and returned to Root, who was concentrating again.
“What’s going on?” he whispered. “Hello, for how many?”
“Sh! Rats! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe I missed that whole bit! Stupid, dumb, clumsy oaf girl!”
“You missed the name?”
“Yes! Now, she’s just rambling on about false claims in the brochure.”
“What’s Picklepug doing?”
“He says he’s aghast but I can tell he’s not telling the truth. He’s trying to get rid of her now.”
Down the hall, quite some distance away, the door to the Office of the Guardian of DréAmm opened. “…will be most assuredly dealt with in the most severe way.”
“Well, I hope so, because someone, like on
e a these kids here, could get seriously hurt y’know. Or worse!”
“Madam, please!” Picklepug brought his volume down. “No need for hysteria now. Remember your…er…new confidentiality contract.”
“Oh. Right. Sure. So, my…er… cheque…sir?”
“It shall be delivered this day, as promised.”
“Right. Thanks.” Ginovane Borealis slunk away.
Root felt a flare of anger. She turned her body, trying to block out the squawking line up and concentrate more on Picklepug.
“Secretary!” Picklepug screamed.
Slim Pulpit, in perfect timing, was just returning from his filing. “Sir.”
“In the future, I expect you to warn me before I stick both my Whitney P Suresucker boots in my mouth!”
“Will do, sir!”
“Thank you. Now, take this complaint and burn it.” He handed a parchment over to the thick fat fingers of his secretary.
“May I suggest shredding instead? Easier on the lungs.”
“Fine, whatever. Just get rid of it. The last thing I need is a mob of concerned families down my throat.”
“Did I hear her mention the Dark Arts, sir?”
“You heard no such thing. I will not lose this to speculation. This race is will go on, Pulpit, mark my words. I will see to that. Now, do what you’re told!”
“Right on it, sir.”
“That jerk!” Root turned back to Lian. “Just dismissed the whole thing. And he’s paying her t’keep quiet.”
“Surprise, surprise…Hello, for how many?”
“But those were serious accusations. How could he let this continue without even an investigation, when now he’s fully aware of Dark Arts being used? He must know the dangers.”
“Knows and doesn’t care…No, I’m sorry Dwyn Puffler will not be signing autographs before the doors open.”
Lian was right, of course but there was something about the Guardian’s Feel, like there was more to it. “He said some thing about him not losing this.” Root added.
“Root, here’s a little politics 101. There are a lot of cover-ups done in the months leading up to an election date. I would imagine Studaben Picklepug would hold the record.”
“No kidding.” Root released the grip on her insides. Picklepug was swine, she’d always known this. Was it really a surprise that he’d sweep this with the rest of his accumulating pile under the rug? She had to just accept the fact that he would never be an avenue for justice and she would just have to find other means in this. She returned to the task at hand. “Hello. For how many? No, I’m afraid Dwyn Puffler will not be doing a nude scene.”
37
THE FINAL CURTAIN
Sir Mathelopolick was decked out in red, having found the traditional black to be passé. He whipped a crimson scarf around his hyoid and traipsed though the foyer to his favorite position with which to look upon his adoring fans.
“A double Zinger, Sardy. And hold the ice!”
He announced like a true artiste a la rouge. When three Zingers had splashed down his spine, he peacocked around until enough people swarmed to create a definite celebrity affair. His words were eloquently spoken and he only paused twenty six times for the flashing bulbs of Imaginates.
Even, when yet another annoying girl asked him what it was like working with someone like Dwyn Puffler, he retained the cool composure of a star. “Mr. Puffler is young to be sure and I am sure he was as excited to work with me as I was to work with…the great master Jibbles.”
But Dwyn was no such thing. He was in fact feeling like he was going to throw up.
“You’re gonna be just fine.” Root said. “It’s a bit of stage fright is all.”
“I’m gonna forget my lines!”
“Not unless you didn’t take my Spunkleaf like I toldjya to.” Lian said.
“It tasted like Hover puke.”
“Well…” Lian shrugged in a you-snooze-you-lose attitude that sent Dwyn farther into panic.
“Oh don’t be a ninny, Dwyn. Just sit down and breathe.”
After a few breaths Dwyn turned to Root.
“Did you call me a ninny?”
“No.”
“Yes, you did. You said ‘ninny’.”
“No, I said…Okay maybe I did. So what?”
“Nothing.”
A knock on the door put an end to this incredibly intelligent battle of wits. Without being answered Hilly Punyun pranced in. She must have considered this to be a rather shwanky affair for she had accented her standard pink with an undoubtedly expensive grey fur stole around her shoulders. Its long fluffy tail was clasped in its mouth, and Root found the point of its nose and beady eyes to be an all too familiar mirroring of its host.
“Just coming to say ‘break a leg’ and all that.” Hilly trilled.
“I’m sure you are.” Root said under her breath.
Hilly took advantage of her time, scanning every inch of space. “Nice dressing room, Dwyn. I must admit I was quite intrigued to hear of this latest undertaking of yours. Especially in such short notice. I mean, it has mystery written all over it. One might think there were ulterior motives.”
“Wha’d’y’want, Punyun?” Dwyn sneered.
“Like I said, I just wanted to…”
“Get outta here. You’re nothing but a troublemaking…”
“Ninny!” Root filled in.
Hilly Punyun was caught by the door on her way out. She fumed at the laughter that erupted immediately after. “We’ll see who gets the last laugh first. Or last. Or whatever!” She took her seat in the front row and pulled out a pair of theatre glasses. She wasn’t going to miss a thing.
Sir Mathelopolick nervously smoothed back his cranium (some habits die hard). He cued the music and claimed the stage. His audience, his sold out all the way to the nosebleeds audience went quiet.
“Greetings fans…” This was the tip of the quintessential iceberg that was his speech. “Blah, blah, blah…self important…blah…I’m so great…blah…”
His rambling ended abruptly upon the loud sighing of a girl a few rows down. She had quite clearly whispered to her friend how she hoped Dwyn Puffler was going to do a love scene. It created quite a titter.
“Right.” Sir Mathelopolick knew how to take a cue. “And so, without further ado, may I present ‘The Return of the Royal Silken Oxback!’”
Murder, betrayal, jealousy, revenge, all the trappings of a great tragedian production flew off the stage and into the wide eyes of its audience. The director found it intolerable that every scene with Dwyn was punctuated with applause but the rest of the cast seemed to eat it up. In the end he too caved in and fell under the Puffler charm, even allowing a few sniffs during the famous Silken Oxback suicide scene. Dwyn fell with gusto, raising a suitable amount of gasps from his audience. Tissues flew in grand supply and when the last word of the prologue rung in the fateful ending, nothing could stem the tears.
The curtains closed.
The curtains reopened.
The audience jumped to its feet.
The cast bowed.
A particularly tall skeleton in the back row cried like a baby.
The director blew kisses at the audience.
The audience blew kisses at Dwyn.
The stage manager tripped over incoming roses.
And Root and Lian and Tamik raced backstage.
The friends were clutched in a jumping embrace when Sir Mathelopolick entered with something behind his back. “I want you to know that we all chipped in together for this, and it seems like a lot but it’s the least we can do to thank you for this truly historic evening of the Lord Sclerous Players’ company.” He smiled proudly and presented a bouquet of daisies. “For you!” he said to his leading man.
“Oh thank you!” Dwyn took the flowers and put them down beside hundreds of other bouquets. Most of them five times the size.
“Maybe…over here.” The irked director said and moved the wimpy bouquet to a less conspicuous spot. “Wel
l, it’s not what you were really expecting anyhow. I believe this is what you want.” He pulled another prize from behind his back, this one far grander. The iridescent feathers sparkled brighter than ever. “I hope it serves you and your bride-to-be well!”
“What? Oh yeah!” Dwyn flung his arm around Tamik. “Yeah, we are so happy, aren’t we angel…heart?”
“Oh yes! Thank you Sir Mathematical! Thank you so much! My grandma thanks you too…uh… ‘glakwonk’, she says…that’s uh…Ekladian.”
The director looked at them, pleased beyond. If he had eyes they’d have welled up for sure. And there was more. A distinct expectation. “Aren’t you going to kiss your bride?” he cooed.
“Wha?…Oh!…Oh…well…um…” Ah, what the heck? Dwyn dipped Tamik.
The director sighed and clapped his bones. Root giggled.
Lian looked away disapprovingly, though it had nothing to do with Quest guidelines this time. More along the lines of…well, hormones are tricky things, aren’t they?
The snoggers came up for air when the door suddenly swung open. Hilly Punyun’s scheming eyes instantly took attention. “Well now, congratulations! What a performance!” She caught sight of the HaloEm Quill. “And lookie here! See, I knew there was something to this. Why, it’s a genuinely replicated HaloEm Quill prop! How nice for you.”
Before anyone could say anything, before anyone could stop it, the fur of Hilly Punyun’s stole moved.
And the last HaloEm Quill in all of DréAmm was gone, snapping and crunching and sizzling in the acidic saliva of the longhaired Silverfox’s mouth.
“Oops! It was just a prop wasn’t it?”
Ten thousand years could have gone by and still no comprehension would have come. Time was obliviated in the wake of stunned gasps and crashing jaws.
Gone. Just like that. There were no Quills left, none, and now two teams would be eliminated from the race. The Chernbrights and the Valadors. It was over. Done.
The longhaired Silverfox belched.
