by Trevor Veale
Gradually, as the sky lightened, the realization settled on him that they were on the wrong road. He let out a frustrated sigh, reddened, then discretely coughed.
Letitia opened her eyes. “Where are we?” she murmured, momentarily bewildered.
“I’m afraid I’m on the wrong road, ma’am – “ Simpkins began.
Letitia groaned. The wretched man had woken her up form a haunting and peculiar dream involving her mother and her early life before she became queen – and now, as his words sunk in, its atmosphere of dread and guilt surged back to torment her.
“Well, turn the car around then,” she said, closing her eyes. She let her head tilt back. This was all too much for one night.
While he’d been speaking to the queen, Simpkins had managed to miss a large sign that said: DANGER. SLOBODIAN BORDER 1 KM. TURN BACK NOW. He slowed the car to a crawl as, through the fog, he saw the twinkling lights of a border post. A high fence stretched out to the left and right. Directly ahead loomed the floodlit bulk of a concrete blockhouse. It looked ominous and impregnable.
The passengers stirred and squirmed in their seats. Eyes began to open. Gradually the realization settled on them that they were at the wrong border. Letitia gave Simpkins a withering look, and he reddened again. The happy anticipation that had fluttered in the royal breasts like the Mellorian flag of old now sank without trace in the abyss of anxiety.
The Mercedes rolled up to the barrier with a kind of stately majesty. Inside, Godfrey quietly cursed and Letitia flared as the vehicle slowed and stopped before a massive steel gate that blocked the road. Floodlights burned down and gun muzzles poked out of slits in the blockhouse walls.
Letitia was now beside herself with rage. Turning her attention from the chastened Simpkins she leaned out her window and gesticulated.
“Open up, I say!” she shouted in badly-accented Slobodian. “What do you low-born accumulations of sheep droppings think you are doing keeping us waiting? We are bona fide travelers! Simpkins – sound the horn and wake these idiots up!”
“You must stop!” a harsh voice said from the fortresslike border post.
Chapter 42
A Slobodian Welcome
A green-helmeted soldier came out of the blockhouse, pointing his rifle at the car. He had a young acne-cratered face, and touched his helmet in mock salute when he saw who the occupants of the car were. Then he returned to the guardhouse in haste and moments later a peak-capped officer emerged. The officer looked quickly into the car, issued an order to someone inside the post and the barrier was raised. The merc rolled forward past troops who had tumbled out of the guardhouse and stared goggle-eyed at the spectacle.
“Welcome to Slobodia, Your Majesties!” the officer said, pushing aside the troops who were crowding around the merc. He stood beside Letitia’s window, looking in. “Now will you please step out of the car.”
Three of the guards who had been smoking, dropped their cigarettes and crushed them out. Then they unsnapped their holsters and strode to the other side of the car where they formed a row behind the Mercedes, their hands on their revolvers and their legs apart.
Stiff with embarrassment and fatigue, the occupants of the car climbed out and submitted to a perfunctory frisking. The officer walked back to the guardhouse and could be seen on the telephone. Meanwhile the royal party were led into the blockhouse where the officer waited at a small table. Several soldiers stood against the walls.
“Sit!” the escorting soldier barked.
The trio sat obediently in front of the table. “We’re awfully parched,” Godfrey croaked. The officer half-rose from his table. “Water!” he called. One of the soldiers left the room.
“Cigarette?” the officer asked. He held out a pack of a particularly smelly Slobodian brand.
“Ugh!” Godfrey drew back. “No thanks.”
The officer took one out and offered the pack to his soldiers, who helped themselves. The Gorms, and even Simpkins began to gag as all around them soldiers lit up and suffocating cigarette smoke rolled into their faces.
“Now,” the officer said, exhaling a pungent cloud. “I presume you merely lost your way, right?”
“Exactly!” Godfrey beamed. “We were merely returning home from a visit to, er, friends.” He haltingly spun out a story about getting lost trying to find their way back home.
The officer listened closely to Godfrey’s explanation, and then stubbed out his cigarette. “Interesting,” he said.
The soldiers against the wall grinned. The sight of Godfrey, in his dark blue pinstripe suit and Letitia in equally well-dressed attire, was a treat. The soldier who’d been sent to fetch water returned with glasses and a jug of clear liquid.
“Please,’ the officer said, and poured himself a glass. Letitia was appalled. In Melloria the host always served the guests first, even if they were his prisoners. She took the glass offered to her. The water was strangely flavored, and she suddenly realized it was neat vodka.
“To your stay in Slobodia!” the officer shouted and raised his glass.
And may it be an extremely short one, Letitia prayed as they all drank. She had to hold a sneeze in, the alcohol was so strong. It burned all the way to her stomach.
“That’s some water!” Godfrey spluttered.
“It’s little water,” the officer replied. “Vodka, the diminutive of voda.”
Trust a Slobodian to give us a language lesson at five o’clock in the morning, Letitia thought sourly.
“Well, you are welcome to help yourselves,” the officer said, smiling. “I have sent a fax to High Command for further instructions. We may have to wait a couple more hours for a reply.”
Godfrey almost tipped over his chair. “A couple more hours! Why, that’s outrageous! Don’t you know who we are?”
Letitia groaned.
The officer smiled again. “Yes, your Majesty – you are the Mellorian king and queen, and… a chauffeur…” he looked at Simpkins who was sheepishly gazing at the floor. I think I know who you are,” he told him, “and you will be dealt with separately, but for now please enjoy our hospitality.”
Simpkins nodded cautiously, and the officer turned back to Godfrey.
“Tell me, where are your two sons, Prince Catheter and Prince Anton, and where is the beautiful Princess Dawna?”
Godfrey dipped his head. The officer made a small gesture to one of the soldiers and the man refilled their glasses.
For almost two hours the prisoners sat drinking and enduring the choking fug as the officer and his men smoked their way through two more packs of cigarettes. The air reeked of vodka and stale tobacco. Finally the door was flung open and a soldier marched in holding a piece of paper. He gave it to the officer, who opened it and cleared his throat.
“Your transport is ready,” he said to Godfrey and Letitia. “You must leave right away.” To Simpkins he said: “We will deal with you shortly.”
Letitia felt a surge of terror. On impulse, she said: “We will go when we’re good and ready.”
The officer chuckled and shook his head. “I’m going to miss this Mellorian humor. Now, one last toast!”
Then he snapped his fingers for more vodka, which was instantly poured by one of his men. The officer stood. “Health, long life!” They all drained their glasses out of politeness, even Letitia, who felt ready to pass out.
She put her empty glass down with exaggerated slowness, afraid she might miss the table and cause embarrassment. Her mind was rolling. The glass met the table with a hard bump. “Well, I’m off then and a goodnight to both of you,” she said thickly to the blurred image of the officer. She felt her words floating up like bubbles and popping out the top of her head. From somewhere she heard the man’s reply. It sounded like “Look after your mother” or maybe “Look after one another.”
The green uniform and glistening skin of his face floated up to her, and she reached out to him, to stop herself from falling. The officer drew back with a cry and suddenly it seemed the t
able flew up and almost slammed into her face. Then she was on the floor. She groaned and picked herself up. Where was she? She found out when two of the soldiers hauled her to her feet and dragged her to the open door. Outside, the early morning air was so fresh she almost collapsed again. A dim remembrance of decorum kept her legs from giving way.
Everything was waving in and out of shape. She felt loose and lubricated, although she was beginning to experience nausea. Everything in the courtyard was tilted at an odd angle.
“Leave me alone!” she managed to say. Soldiers in shiny green helmets were bearing down on her, and she felt hemmed in. She looked around, bewildered. Godfrey was nowhere to be seen, and the men in the blockhouse had also disappeared. Disoriented, she grabbed at the doorpost and attempted to go back inside.
“Get out, you drunken bitch!” one of the green-helmeted soldiers said.
I’m drunk, she thought, he’s right.
She pushed away from the door and, swaying, stood with exaggerated care. Her head was spinning, but her woosiness was clearing in the fresh dawn air.
“Get in that truck! ”the soldier bellowed.
“Oh, I can’t. It’s too far,” she said, affecting bashfulness. She was prepared to use any ploy to stay where she was, where she felt safe.
Nausea suddenly swept up, and she knew it would be impossible to fight it. She pushed the tip of her finger right inside her mouth as far down as it would go, then released it. A stream of whitish vomit erupted from her mouth and landed with a sickening smack on the courtyard. She contorted several more times, then swallowed hard and, lifting her head, gave the soldier one of her royal smiles.
He took her arm and attempted to pull her away, so she planted her feet, resisting him. He responded by tugging harder. Keep calm, she told herself. Eventually she gave up the battle and let him frogmarch her to where an army troop carrier was waiting. Built like a bus, its sliding door was open.
“Get in!” the soldier ordered, and gave her a sharp prod.
She looked inside to see two more soldiers, one of them the driver, sitting in the front. Behind them two rows of empty seats separated Godfrey, huddled in the back. Reluctantly, she climbed aboard. Afterwards, two additional soldiers climbed into the truck, the last one sliding the door shut. The soldier who had been rough with her swung around in his seat to glare at the two passengers. “Welcome to my country,” he said. “You’re going to have the time of your life!”
Chapter 43
Ferdy’sMansion
The two horses, with their three riders, plodded along a leaf-carpeted bridle path in the moonlit Forest of Gorm. Lucinda’s mare led the way, the gelding with Catheter on its saddle and Anton on its blanketed rump, close behind.
Both princes were groggy from lack of sleep, and Catheter had the reins wrapped around his wrists while Anton clung to his brother’s waist. Around them, the mysterious sounds of the forest kept them barely awake.
Better doze, I suppose, Anton thought, yawning, and he clamped his arms tighter around Catheter’s waist. He squirmed on the gelding’s bony rump. The thermos of water slapped against the bag of sandwiches in the saddlebag as Lucinda let her mare pick a surefooted way through the bushes and shrubs. The gelding plodded along indifferently, as if resenting his extra burden, his lozenge-patterned head swinging low to the ground and keeping time like a pendulum to the hooves softly clopping along the path.
As the ride wore on, Anton began a long, guiltless sleep. He knew he was the inferior rider, that Lucinda would keep the pace, eyes on the mare’s bobbing head, and that Catheter would always be watching her with those adoring eyes of his. Telling himself he was just too pooped to keep his eyes open, he drooped his head and dreamed he was still awake, listening to the caw of a crow or the hoot of an owl and gazing at the moon between the jiggling pair of heads. He awoke suddenly, to find the two heads still jiggling, and the thick clusters of trees thinning out into scrub and reeds as they entered the marshy borderland.
A rosy morning light smeared the horizon, birds were singing and he could make out tiny human figures in the distance. He was surprised to find his arms still latched around Catheter’s waist, and he unfastened them to relieve their stiffness. Shortly afterwards, Lucinda let go of the reins and the mare stopped. Catheter pulled up the gelding, and he and Lucinda dismounted, dropping to the dirt with a stagger. Then they coaxed Anton, numb with cramp, to swing his left leg over the gelding’s head and jump down. The gelding gave a snort of delight, glad to be free of his double load.
They squatted down beside the horses, ate sandwiches and drank water from the thermos. The smell of the doughy bread made the horses nostrils twitch and the gelding trained his murky brown eyes on the sandwiches.
“No chance!” Anton told him, and stuffed a whole sandwich into his mouth. Lucinda swatted the side of his head and fed each of the horses a sandwich. Then she got up and went to a nearby myrtle bush, stripped a few leaves and crushed them between her palms. She rubbed the resulting pulp on her arms.
“You should rub this on your skin,” she told the two princes. “It acts like wax, keeping the mosquitos off.”
Catheter began stripping and crushing myrtle leaves, while Anton merely rolled down his sleeves and buttoned his shirt at the neck.
When they had sufficiently rested, they got back on the horses and rode on, to the edge of some agricultural land. The figures in the distance proved to be two men in denim overalls, working in one of the fields. They waved cheerily to the riders as they approached. Two potbellied donkeys waited patiently at the edge of the field.
“Bulimia – here?” Lucinda asked haltingly.
“Yah, Bulimia!” one of the men replied, showing a mouthful of bad teeth.
“Peasants!” Anton muttered.
The rosy light of morning was whitening and it covered the whole sky. The riders maintained their pace, stopping once for food and water, and letting the horses sample the stringy marsh grass. As the sun climbed higher, they saw a steep grassy bank from whose summit rose a line of giant trees. These were leaning at odd angles like drunks queuing for the bathroom, and Catheter sat up in his saddle.
“Behind that hill is Cousin Ferdy’s place,” he said.
Lucinda urged her mare up the bank, stopped and slipped off. She began scaling the bank, ahead of Catheter who galloped up, dismounted and scrambled after her. Anton got down from the gelding and ambled up behind the other two.
Reaching the top, they glimpsed the castellated outline of an enormous mansion. Lucinda let out a cry.
“We’re there!” she yelled. “I can see a big white mansion about 2 k’s away.”
“That’s Ferdy’s house,” Catheter said, struggling up beside her, “my second cousin, Ferdinand, Duke of Melancholia.”
The three travelers went back for their mounts and rode around the bank. On the other side, a smooth black road wound through green meadows, gradually giving way to a series of ornate gardens. A final stretch through groves of flower-hung trees opened onto a vista of parkland set with fountains, before the ultimate bend in the road that ended in front of the white mansion.
They gazed up in wonder at the turrets, pillars, mullions, towers, hectares of windows and rows of crenellation.
Fuck! This place makes Calliper look like a lean-to shed! Anton thought, clinging to Catheter’s waist as their horses trotted along.
They pulled up in front of a grand entrance with Corinthian pillars, and an ornately-dressed servant opened the front portals and stood awaiting their arrival.
“I presume this is the residence of His Grace, the Duke of Melancholia?” Catheter said.
“It is, sir.”
“Good. I was concerned we had the right address. We’ve been riding for hours and we’re tuckered out. Kindly convey to your master that Crown Prince Catheter and his brother Prince Anton are here with Miss Lucinda Limehouse-Blewit.”
“Of course, Your Highness. Follow me if you please.”
The servant bowe
d deferentially and, after instructing an ostler to take care of the horses, ushered the visitors inside. They walked along a corridor hung with enormous tapestries, their grimy footprints impacting the pile of the oriental carpet, to a pair of oak doors which the servant prized open with difficulty.
‘Welcome to my modest abode,” a tremulous voice quavered. “Welcome.” The owner of the voice, a parchment-faced old man with white hair, dressed in a red padded smoking-jacket, sat in solitary splendor in his oak-paneled drawing room. He rose, bowed stiffly and held out his hand.
“We so glad to be here, Your Grace,” Catheter said, accepting the ancient hand and pressing the fingers lightly, “and we’re hoping that Mama and Papa will be joining us in Bulimia soon. We’ve had quite a journey!”
“I can see by your appearance that you’ve been traveling hard,” the old duke said. “But pray come into my study and have some refreshments, all of you.”
The livered servant departed and returned with a tray of warm croissants, butter and conserves, and the duke offered them drinks from his enormous mahogany cabinet. They all sat round a table laden with glasses and decanters.
“So tell me how it all began,” the duke asked, pouring himself a brandy.
His eyes widened as Catheter and the others told their tale, and he trembled and gasped when told about the Gorms’ incarceration.
“Terrible! Terrible!” he rattled. “Those damned Bolsheviks must be made to pay for what they did to my dear cousin and his wife! How awful for Their Majesties to be locked up in a mental home! How is His Majesty, by the way?”
“He is well, I hope, and by now he and Mama should be safely over the border and on their way to Porcellan Palace to join Their Majesties King Hector and Queen Ada.”
“I will telephone Their Majesties in a short while to confirm that Their Majesties have arrived safely or are on their way,” the duke replied. “In the meantime, I think it’s time you had some rest, all of you. My servant will show you to your rooms. Please make use of my paltry accommodations.”