The King’s Decision - Short Story by Wayne Garry Fife

 

The King’s Decision

Short Story

by

Wayne Garry Fife

 

“Oh no,” groaned King Ramishadva, as he brushed an imagined piece of lint from his red velvet cuff.  “What new horror do my relatives have in store for me tonight?”  

            Laraff jumped from his seat and picked up his fork as if it were a sword. “I shall fight the stage for you, sire, if you desire it!” He swished his fork in the air, vaguely waving it toward the puppet stage being wheeled into place.   

            “And I shall wrestle any puppet who dares to insult you, sire,” declared Bri’Tanna, towering over the back of his friend. The two of them swayed a little, having imbibed a couple of strong ales before the ball began.

            “Thank you, brave sirs, but I believe we must allow events to proceed to their inevitable conclusion.”

            “Well,” said Laraff, plunking himself back down onto his chair and reaching for his ale, “if you think it wise.” The elf Bri’Tanna kissed the top of the dwarf’s head as he moved past him to re-take his seat.

            “Get off,” Laraff complained.

            The King’s female relatives, including his young cousins Ayomi and Lakshani, took advantage of the diverted attention to slip on their puppets and take their places behind the stage. More puppets sat in a jumble on a large table just behind them, patiently waiting their turn to come alive.

            Ayomi raised her puppet above the stage threshold, announcing: “The show begins with Sir Crown Meets a Fair Damsel.”

            “The gods,” complained the king, though inwardly he smiled. A little mockery of his royal person might help take everyone’s minds off the impending invasion, which was why he was holding the ball in the first place. His hands fidgeted beneath the table as he thought of the Armada filled with orcs, humans, and shadow elves that was making its way from the mainland toward them. A force his spies told him was so much larger than his own. His advisors were not of one mind; none had been able to put up a fully convincing argument for one course of action over another. What should I do?

            The first play was a farce. Big’Stuff, who was the spitting image of Bri’Tanna, disguised himself as a lady in waiting who, after much maneuvering, managed to lure Sir Crown into a compromising situation. However, when Sir Crown began kissing the ersatz maiden, she jumped up and ran away, declaring: “Yuck, bad kisser, bad kisser!” The crowd roared its approval, while the king and queen graciously joined in the applause.  

The next vignette saw both Short’Stuff and Big’Stuff joining Sir Crown on a hunting expedition. Based loosely on a recent trip that King Ramishadva the Second, Laraff, and Bri’Tanna had made to hunt quail, the three young puppets skewed each other as they rapidly turned in circles, attempting to shoot quails that ran in, around, and between their legs. Short’Stuff was hit no fewer than three times in the same foot, before urgently declaring: “The gods damn it, I’m not a bloody quail!” This was followed by the smaller puppet storming from the stage, as the other two sputtered apologies.

“Sorry, old pal,” declared Sir Crown.

“It’s not my fault, he’s so short,” remonstrated Big’Stuff. “Almost like a quail, really.”

“I should have assaulted the stage when I had the chance,” suggested Laraff at the King’s table.

“My friend, we never really had a chance,” countered the King, holding forth his cup in a salute to his friend.

“Too true,” put in Bri’Tanna, taking another sip of ale.

“You know, my cousins are going to expect us to dance with them after their show ends,” suggested King Ramishadva.

“Gods!” expostulated Laraff. Then he stood to his feet, a bit unsteadily. “In that case, I’m going for more beer.”

But the puppet show was not yet finished. Two highly recognizable figures emerged, causing the king to frown. Punch and Judy were considerably more popular on the mainland. Certainly, Punch often mocked and even got the better of town guards and the like, but he was also apt to beat Judy. This was not going to be a popular theme among their matriarchal elven allies from the Far Eastern Islands, many of whom were their guests this evening. What were the girls thinking?

The play began with Judy busy on the stage cleaning house, when Punch burst through the front door.

“What are you doing here, my dear. I thought you decided to leave me for good and forever?”

“I come and go as I please, woman. Make me some dinner, I’m hungry. And be quick about it.”

“Well, …I didn’t expect you, but I suppose I could find something for you to eat.”

“You’d better, if you know what’s good for you.” Punch picked up a large stick that lay near the front door, whooshing it around in the air and glaring toward his wife. A murmur ran through the crowd, and not only among the Far Eastern Elves.

As Judy prepared a large lunch, bustling about the stage, Punch demanded a beer, then grabbed her for a kiss against her will. When she resisted, he declared: “This is my home, and I’ll do what I bloody well like in it.”

The king couldn’t help but admire the artistry of the two young girls, but failed to understand why his sister Chatura and the others would have allowed them to do this scene. Now of all times, when they would need every ally that they could get.

Finally, the large lunch was ready. Punch sat down, placing his long stick next to the chair. He looked over the table, which was grunting with food. “Humph,” he declared, sweeping the food off the tabletop with one rapid swipe of his arm. “NOT GOOD ENOUGH! I think there’s a woman at this table who needs to be taught a little lesson.” Snatching up his stick, Punch moved toward his still seated wife and the ballroom became completely silent.

“Judy, Judy, Judy, Judy, JUdy, JUDy, JUDY, JUD-EEEEE. My bloody name is JUD-EEEEE, screeched the female puppet, jumping up from her chair. She snatched the stick from the hands of Punch. “JUDY, JUDY, JUDY, JUD-EEEEEEEE, she screamed, as she began roundly smacking him with the implement. He tried fighting back, but she was relentless. Finally, Punch looked toward the audience, back toward the female puppet, and then he ran. Judy followed all the way to the exit, beating him mercilessly as he scurried. When he was finally gone, she stuck her head out the door, shouting very loudly: “And don’t come back! We do not allow uninvited guests into our home. Not now, not ever!”    

A moment of silence passed, followed by another. Then it felt to the king as if everyone came to an understanding at once. Some beat their feet against the floor, others hooted, hollered, or shouted with glee; everyone clapped.

King Ramishadva turned to Queen Onisha, who’s tiara had slipped partway down her brow from her vigorous clapping. She lifted her head, favouring him with a large, open smile. This he returned with a grin so broad that it would be difficult for anyone to miss. His subjects had spoken. They would fight. Not now, not ever.

Wayne Garry Fife is an anthropologist and writer who lives in St. John’s on the island of Newfoundland in Canada. He writes micro fiction, flash fiction, short stories, memoir, novels, and non-fiction. His most recent book publication is entitled Imaginary Worlds (Invitation to an Argument). Although he embraces many forms of fiction, his heart lies in speculative fiction, particularly fantasy and science fiction.