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Uprisers and the Polite Revolution
By Niels Kunze
Narrated Version Recommended.
“Oh, tell me what’s happened!”
“First a cup of grog, Ma. First a cup of grog.”
The old hag rocked forward in a chair not specifically designed to rock, though it had recently acquired that feature from a combination of overuse and prudent neglect. Its joints creaked and groaned as she set about spilling weak and oxidized beer over most of the surface of the table, some of which, however, serendipitously splashed into wooden cups that, like the old lady, seldom left the table – and certainly never to be washed… again, much like the old lady.
“Ah, thanks Ma,” said the eldest as the three boys arranged themselves around the table according to the random placement of the cups of grog. The cups were quickly and unceremoniously drained as the eldest grabbed the pitcher from Ma’s jitterbugging grasp to proceed with a refill… without all the tragic spillage.
“So… what’s happened? Did you see Master Hoodwink? Did you kick him in the arse?”
“Oh, damn near, Ma. Damn near,” replied the eldest.
“It was glorious,” continued the youngest, attempting to wrest the narrative from his older brother. “There must’ve been at least… at least… 30 of us! Or more!”
“Truly there were hundreds, perhaps a thousand,” corrected the elder between sighs. He couldn’t understand why his little brother could not fathom a number greater than 30. He had tried to explain numerous times the straightforwardness of 31 and beyond… but alas, to no avail. “A great unruly and angry mob we were too– all the vale’s finest rabble set to a noble task. We brandished pitchforks and shovels… and sticks hewn to a ferocious point.”
“And clumps of dirt,” interjected the middling one.
“Yes, yes, of course, clumps of dirt… and rocks… and other menacing things.”
The old lady toothlessly smiled her approval. “Did you storm the castle?”
“Storm indeed. A veritable squall of unrelenting squalor.” The elder paused a moment wondering if he’d gotten that quite right, but quickly decided that it certainly sounded good, and so blustered on confidently. “We marched right up to the Ivory Tower.”
“Not the Ivory Tower!”
“Oh yes! The Ivory Tower indeed!”
“And was Hoodwink there? Locked away in his precious rook?”
“Rook? Oh, you mean like a castle from a chessboard. I don’t think the words are interchangeable.”
“Actually,” began the middling one interposing, “as a transitive verb, to rook means to defraud by cheating or swindling.”
“Oh well then, very good. Rook would seem most apt, Ma. Nicely done.” Ma flashed again her shiny pink gums proudly. “But can it be re-nouned?”
The middling brother scratched his head – because it was itchy. And then a look of puzzlement overtook his countenance. “Do you mean renowned as in famous? Because I don’t follow…”
“No, no, I mean, can the verb ‘rook’ be so easily converted back into a noun whilst still retaining its verbial denotation?”
“Oh, I see… Perhaps as a gerund… Yes, as a gerund; I don’t see why not.”
“Fuck yer grammar!” shouted Ma.
And the youngest snickered as he’d heard “Fuck your grandma,” and well, he tended to laugh at things like that, which were wholly inappropriate.
“Back to the arse-kicking!” insisted the old lady.
“Right. Well, there we were, a thousand strong, ringing the base of Hoodwink’s Ivory Tower, shaking our fists threateningly and mightily raising our voices in a din of discontent.”
“I stamped my feet,” added the youngest.
“That’s a good boy,” replied Ma, patting his hand approvingly.
“I threw a clump of dirt,” said the middling one, not wanting to be outdone.
“And what did you hit, dear?”
“Um… well, it sailed on past the bloody… rook…” All heads briefly nodded in consenting acknowledgement of his cutting-edge word-usage. “But had Hoodwink been looking out at that precise moment, he would not have been able to mistake my intimidatory intent.”
“Good… show,” said Ma in a strange congealing mixture of pity and pride.
“Anyway,” continued the eldest, “we were really carrying on most impolitely, fashioning quite a sizable hullaballoo, which even Hoodwink himself would’ve been hard-pressed to ignore – had he had the common decency to even notice us.”
“He didn’t!”
“What?”
“Notice you, I mean.”
“No. He. Did. Not… for really quite a lengthy time… a time well-used, I might add, to significantly raise our ire.”
“Our what?”
“Our ire. Our ire.”
“I think he’s suddenly turned into a pirate!”
“No! Our ire. Our indignation!”
“Oh, indignation. Mine was sky-high, I can tell you. By the time Hoodwink finally poked his head out the window… to spit, I was more than a tad miffed. And when his gob, his loogey, his elite sputum landed, well I was, right then, easily nine-sixteenths of the way to pissed right off!”
“Did it land on you, dear?”
“No, it fell harmlessly to the ground a few feet away… But that’s not the point! Just think what might’ve happened if I’d been milling about in a more haphazard fashion right then!”
“Oh perish the thought, dear. That Hoodwink’s a beast, he is!”
“May I continue?” asked the eldest from somewhere amongst the endless side-streets and tangents.
“Who’s stopping ya?” prodded the middling one, as he promised to drown any further interruptions in another cup of grog.
“As luck would have it,” continued the eldest, “Hoodwink was apparently in the habit of following with his gaze those globs of lung butter to their landing far below. And so… he noticed us. And scowled.”
“Probably upset that his yellow Jello missed.”
“I’m sure. I’m sure… And once he was mostly done with the scowling, he shouted down ‘Can I help you?’ but the scowl still lingered ever-so-slightly, so, I for one, was not about to fall for such blatantly false altruism. He was clearly in no mind to help anyone!”
“I should say not! And how did you respond?”
“Well, I called his bluff… is what I done. I shouted back ‘Yes!’ And then there followed the most awkward of pregnant pauses… lasting quite well along into the third trimester.”
“Awkward for him,” spoke up the youngest. “I knew what was what.”
“Uh-huh. We waited, and he stared down at us impatiently. But we waited some more. I wasn’t going to say a single thing more until impatience turned to righteous annoyance. He was sliding effortlessly into bothered… his annoyance rather imminent, when suddenly the chap beside me hollered up ‘We’re declaring sovereignty!’”
“He didn’t!”
“He did!”
“Just like that? Without so much as a ‘Pardon me, but I think I’d like to interject if you’d permit me’?”
“With not so much as a tug on my sleeve… or a even a nudge. Just spoke right up!”
“Rude. That’s what it is. People’ve lost the fine art of conversation. It’s uncivilized! So anyway, what did Hoodwink say to that?”
“At first he said ‘What?’ Apparently he hadn’t heard. The tower really is quite tall… and the wind was blowing a bit, so it might’ve been rather difficult to hear. Now, the chap who’d just spoken out of turn opened his mouth to repeat the declaration, perhaps a little bit louder. But I’m not one to miss an opportunity for redemption…”
“I should think not! What did you do?”
“I jabbed him with my menacingly-hewn stick. He uttered something along the lines of ‘Ow!’ but I plowed ahead undaunted. ‘We are declaring sovereignty… sir!’ I can’t for the life of me fathom why I added the ‘sir.’ I mean, any proper declaration of sovereignty… or really anything having to do with sovereignty at all should remain bereft of ‘sirs’ and ‘madams’ and the like. But I suppose it was just out of habit.”
“Gonna be tough for us all to kick the sniveling habit. You always were a fine sniveler.”
“Ah well, at least I never got drawn into the groveling much.”
“Much… So then what did Hoodwink say?”
“‘Be right down,’ I think it was. And to be perfectly honest, he was down among us in a proper jiffy. Must’ve taken the stairs two at a time the whole way down. So anyway, there he was standing among us, the flesh-and-blood man, and we thronged him on every side. He was hopelessly marooned in a sea of recalcitrant miscreants eyeing him with mischievous wrath… a right threatening lot we were. And he said ‘What’s this then about declaring sovereignty?’ He asked it smooth as silk. And before any of the other rabble got a mind to speak up, I said ‘We want our freedom.’ And the brandishing of our minacious implements of intimidation – including the clumps of dirt – reached a crescendo. It was clear we meant business.”
“Oh my! Whatever could he say to that… in such an untenable position?”
“He said ‘Um… no.’”
“No? He said no? How could he say no? You kicked his arse, right?”
“Oh many a pendulous leg was drawn into pre-kicking position, I can tell you. Menacingly-hewn sticks were pointed right at him. Even a clump or two of dirt were hurled in his direction – missing by mere inches. We were like a pack of wildcats ready to pounce.”
“Cats don’t really pack together like wolves or ungulates,” corrected the middling one.
“Right then. How about jackals? Would jackals be more suitable?”
“Yes, quite. But I hardly think that jackals would pounce. Perhaps ‘ready to strike’ would be better.”
“But that’s more reminiscent of serpents,” added the youngest. “Serpents strike.”
“We were like a pack of jackals ready to… advance?”
“Naw, too militaristic for jackals.”
“How about ready to… charge?”
“No, now we’re back to ungulates.”
“We were like a pack of jackals ready to… attack…?”
“A bit drab, but yeah, ‘attack’ works for me.”
“I think ‘pounce’ would’ve been fine.”
“Either way.”
“We were like a pack of snarling jackals ready to… slake our bloodlust.” The eldest paused for approval.
“Nicely done.”
“I snarled some. Really, I did.”
“And Hoodwink… he waved the white flag.”
“He surrendered!” shouted Ma with glee.
“No. That’s what we’d thought at first. No, the white flag was really a sheet of paper… from the king’s registry. It was the record of our bondage into perpetual slavery issued upon our birth at the moment our names were catalogued in the royal archive. He had all the proper paperwork.”
Stunned silence prevailed, until the youngest squeaked a tiny fart followed by a robust giggle.
“You’ve done a bit of lawyering,” Ma said to the middling one, not wanting to let the fight go so easily. “Did ya thoroughly scrutinize his fancy documentation?”
“I did, Ma. All the I’s were dotted; all the t’s were crossed. We have no legal standing. We’re slaves.”
“Ah well then, if he’s got all the appropriate paperwork… there’s not much we can do about that, is there?”
11:28 Chaconne Christopher Parkening
– Niels Kunze is a Fairmont Hot Springs-based author, thinker and musician.
