Thursday 30 November 2017

All Hail!

First Witch:
All hail, Hunchmausen! Hail to thee Duke of Nussholz Pomme-Lesia!

The Horseman:
Really?

First Witch:
Yes, I just said, didn't I?

'All hail ... oh come on, Mary - get 
into the spirit of things!'
The Horseman:
But it's all rather sudden.

First Witch:
The spirits spake unto me!

The Horseman:
Well, could they spake a bit more loudly? Could they spake, for example, about where this place is that I shall be Duke of?

Second Witch:
All hail, Hunchmausen! Hail to thee, Emperor of Fenwick!

The Horseman:
Hang on, hang on! I thought I was going to be Duke of Nussholz Whatever-Whatever.

Second Witch:
Hail to thee, Emperor of Fenwick!

The Horseman:
What, at the same time as being Duke of Nussholz? Or is there some notion of this being sequential?

Third Witch:
All hail, Hunchmausen! King of Gelderland thou shalt be!

The Horseman, choking:
What a what?

Third Witch:
King of Gelderland thou shalt be!

The Horseman:
Shalt I? How? A minute ago I was merely a duke. Are you sure?

First Witch:
Hail!

Second Witch:
Hail!

Third Witch:
Hail!

Fourth Witch:
Can I say "Hail" too?

First Witch:
Mary, stop improvising!

Fourth Witch:
But I never get any lines.
'All ...' *cough* 'Glenda!' *cough*
 'wardrobe malfunction!'

The Horseman:
King! King! And Gelderland - it is a rich and powerful kingdom?

Third Witch:
Have you ever been to Mittleheim before?

The Horseman:
No

Third Witch:
Then, yes it is.

The Horseman:
Huzzah! My fortunes have changed.

The horseman seems about to ride off eastwards in his enthusiasm, but then manages to check himself.


The Horseman:
You wouldn't, you know, be fibbing.

First Witch:
Oh no, no, no, no. That's not what we do. We foretell - we are the three witches of yore!

The Horseman:
Where's that? Also, counting your number, I can't help feeling that there might be some basic numerical challenges to your title of the three wi....

All:
Quick, let's go! Er ... Hail!

Exeunt

Munchausen is alone in the dark. He begins to whistle a jaunty tune. Waiting a moment, he then spurs his horse eastwards down the road. After a short while, he breaks out into song. Forward to adventure! Forward to Mittelheim and a kingdom of his own!

Behind him, the place where the baron halted is quiet. Then, from behind a bush Morag's voice hisses: 'Is he gone?'
'Yes,' replies Mary. 'The coast is clear.'
All four reappear from behind various pieces of vegetation.
Glenda says brightly 'You see: I told you it would be fun!'
From the west comes the sound of a cart. The unmistakable odour of pig farmer grows stronger as the sound gets nearer. As the farmer arrives, he stands back terrified as four dark apparitions appear in front of him. A wailing voice shouts out: 'All hail Herr Pig Farmer! Hail to thee Duke of Nussholz Pomme-Lesia!

Sunday 19 November 2017

Hubble Blubble!!

Evening is falling. By the side of the main road into Mittelheim, a small group of women are engaged in a vigorous exchange of views. But their language is foreign: English, possibly, with a strong accent from those parts of the British isles known as Scotland. A land where men are men; and women nearly so. There seems to be some dispute. We come closer and notice that there are three of them. Glenda, Shona, and Morag. It is dangerous for women to be alone at night in these dark times. With the Dirty Ears War still ongoing, women run the risk of being abducted by ruffianly vermin from the armies of both sides, and then being forced to do unspeakable things - washing their uniforms, watching them eat with their mouths open, or listening to them trying to sing. But these women probably are safe enough at the moment since they can hardly be seen: the gloom is gathering; the women seem mainly to be wearing black; and, as already noted, times are dark. Their garb is wild and ink-black; their hair unkempt; nearby is a small stack of broomsticks. It would seem, dear reader, that (without wishing to seem judgemental) we have encountered a coven of witches. From the forest a fourth figure steps into view: it is Mary, the last of their number.

SCENE I: A Forest Road. 

There is no Thunder or Lightning

First Witch (Shona):
When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

Second Witch (Glenda):
When the hurly burly's done.
When the battles lost and won.
But also, let's not meet in thunder, lightning, or in rain. We could just meet at that nice looking tavern house we saw on the way here.

Third Witch (Morag):
That will be the 'Setting Sun'.

First Witch:
Oooh, yes, that was the place.

First Witch:
Upon the heath?

Third Witch:
No, past the bridge and turn left.

First Witch:
Oooh, lovely.

All:
Fair is foul, and foul is fair
Hover through the fog and filthy air

Fourth Witch (Mary):
Why don't I get any lines? I never get any lines. This trip is rubbish. "Learn German, you said. Go to Prussia, you said." Well, we should never have left Eccelfechan.

First Witch:
I know, I know. I realise that this trip hasn't been as successful as we had hoped. Prussia, sadly, has too much embraced the Age of Reason for our particular abilities to be in much demand. But I'm convinced that in Mittelheim our fortunes will be restored. Such a place as this surely will be receptive to our skills. It's backwards, prejudiced, poorly educated, and the toads seem to be very reasonably priced.

Third Witch:
Yes, that's all very well. But with Mary here now there's four of us. It's really quite integral to the whole "three witches" thing that we should number three. Otherwise, it just doesn't work. No one is going to take seriously predictions from the "The Roughly Numbered Three Witches." I mean, if we can't get our own numbers accurate, who's going to take our foretellings seriously?  How is it going to sound if we say "All hail insert name, king it is not implausible ye might be given the favourable machinations of a number of key variables that we haven't quite put our fingers on." No - four witches won't work. And in any case, Mary hasn't really bought into the spirit of our coven.

First Witch:
Come now, we're a "group" not a "coven," remember?

Morag looks at her own gown, which is black and ragged, and then gestures to Mary. Mary pokes out her tongue. Glenda sighs. 'You see Mary, Morag has a point. Witches ... well, black generally is our thing.'
'We need to move with the time,' replies Mary defensively.
'All hail Hunschmausen, for breakfast
eggs ye might have!'
'Oh I agree, I agree,' says Shona, stepping in. 'And you know, I think that we have indeed done that. Remember, we got rid of the hats. And the really big toads.'
'And the warts,' adds Glenda
'And the cauldron,' says Shona.
'That was really heavy,' admits Mary. 'And the problems it caused with portion sizes. I put on at least half a stone.'
'And,' adds Morag, 'I'm not against adding some discrete lace detail around the hems. It's just the  ...' she gestures at Mary's clothes, '... the purple silk brocade, yellow dress, fan, elaborate wig and jewellery.'
'I'm not wearing black,' says Mary with finality. 'It's so seventeenth century.'
'Couldn't you just wear the basic black dress,' says Glenda, 'and then ... accessorise?'
Mary snorts. 'What, add a ducking stool and a restless village lynch-mob?'

Suddenly, from the west comes the gentle sound of a horse's hooves.
'Look,' says Glenda. 'Come on. This is what we do. It'll cheer you all up.'

SCENE II: A Forest and not a Heath

There is no sound of thunder. Enter a Horseman

First Witch:
Where hast thou been, sister?

Second Witch:
Killing swine.

Third Witch:
Sister, where thou?

First Witch:
A sailor's wife had chestnuts on her lap,
And munch'd, and munch'd, and munch'd:
'Give me,' quoth I:
'Aroint thee, witch!' the rump-fed ronyon cries,
Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the tiger:
But in a sieve I'll thither sail,
And, like a rat without a tail,
I'll do, I'll do, I'll do

The Horseman:
What's a ronyon? And what happens when one gets arointed?

First Witch: 
A ronyon? Well it's ... it's not unlike an onion. Probably.

The Horseman:
And an arointing?

Second Witch:
Look, I don't think that the actual specifics of an arointing are strictly relevant. I think that one can just assume that being arointed is something best avoided.

First witch:
I myself have all the other,
And the very ports they blow

The Horseman:
Well, you strangely-dressed apparitions. That is all very well, but name yourselves! Why have you waylaid me?

'All hail Hunschmausen, lunch is a distinct
possibility at some time around twelve!'
ALL:
Well, we're witches and we have come to comment upon your fate!

Fourth Witch:
Yes, indeed. With speed because we don't want to be ... er... too late!

First Witch:
Stop improvising, Mary!

Fourth Witch:
But I never get any lines!

The Horseman: 
Out of my way, oddly dressed crones (though I exclude from that last description the youngest of your number who has a most comely ensemble). For I am Baron Munch ... I mean Baron, um ... Hunchmausen, and I am on my way to Mittelheim for some perfectly ordinary reason that no one need pay any attention to.

First Witch:
Nay, for by the pricking of my thumb,
Something wicked has this way come!

Fourth Witch: 
Thank you sir: the purples and yellows of my dress do look well, I think.

Second Witch:
For pity's sake Mary. Look Herr Mister Hunchmausen Horseman, hear now our visions for your future ....












Monday 13 November 2017

A Mysterious Stranger!

The scene, dear reader: a single horseman clops slowly down a road that leads from some minor Prussian-owned statelet in east-central Europe. Why our weary traveller is upon this road, we do not yet know. Probably he is lost. Or perhaps he is being pursued by some bloodthirsty brigands; or some dangerously hungry local wildlife. A wolf, perhaps. A large one, with something against men in tall hats.  Our horseman's reasons for taking this road must surely be pressing, for the road that he is on is not one that any traveller normally would take voluntarily. If one were to find this road upon a map, one could trace its eastward destination with one's finger. Upon discovering this destination, one would probably be moved to say something such as: 'Turn around! Turn around!''; or 'why has this bit of the map been crossed out and replaced with the words "Best left undiscovered;"or 'who has cut this big hole here in my map ?' Such words would be entirely understandable, given that the destination of this road is the Duchy of Mornig-Hesse-Burcken - westernmost of that collection of electorates, kingdoms, bishoprics, pig sties, baronies, mud pits, and landgravates termed by  geographers as "Mittelheim."  And the time: generally, some two months before the encounter between competing freibattalion forces at Donaukerbad, the outcome of which has so recently pleased Prince Dimitri von Osterburg-Feratu, Voivode of Vulgaria. More specifically, the time is sometime before dinner: sufficiently early that one might feel guilty at broaching a glass of wine; sufficiently late that one would drink it anyway.

We continue our perusal. A short time passes. Soon, ahead on the road can be espied a small border post. Our traveller, however, seems unperturbed that he is rapidly running out of Prussia and likely, in consequence, to end up in Mittelheim, a region which, when it was encroached upon by the Enlightenment, had it arrested and beaten for disturbing the peace. The border post itself is not owned by Mornig-Hesse-Burcken. States in Mittleheim realised long ago that the commitment of travellers to entering their region was probably already so low that adding any additional obstacles, such as the need to show papers at the border; to pay customs duties; to pause in order to adjust shoe buckles; or, indeed, to slow down to anything below a gallop, was likely simply to give them an unhelpful opportunity to reconsider their decision to enter Mittelheim at all. So instead, this is a Prussian border post. It's function in part is to offer helpful advice to any travellers going eastwards, on the assumption that anyone wanting to go in that direction is lost or mad (unsurprisingly, a high proportion are both). But the post also serves to offer warm congratulations to any personages heading westwards and leaving Mittelheim.

The object of our study approaches the post and halts to address the two figures manning it. The latter seem to be Grenzers - mercenary Croats. Technically, as noted, this border post does not levy customs duties on visitors. The Grenzers, however, tend to view themselves less as soldiers, per se, and more as an example of the hardworking self-employed. On their own initiative, therefore, they do impose a form of customs duty, it being the custom of the Grenz to introduce visitors to the Croats' duty to relieve them of their valuables. The two Grenzers approach our horseman warily, though. There is something strangely familiar about him.

'Sir, sir, I think that you must be lost,' says one of the Croats to the gentleman traveller. 'Because to go any further eastwards can only lead you to the states of Mittelheim.'
'Indeed, my man,' replies the horseman. 'I am not lost. Now, out of my way for I have urgent business to attend to.'
'But sir, you don't understand, sir,' says the other Croat. 'You've clearly got your map upside down because, although no doubt you intend to go westwards and thus increase the distance between yourself and Mittelheim, you are inadvertently going eastwards, straight into Mornig-Hesse-Burcken and thus the distance is decreasing. You are,' he says ominously, 'getting closer to Mittelheim.'
'Indeed, that is my intended destination,' replies the gentleman.
'Your intended ...?' The Croats look at one another in the same manner as if the traveller had said in a falsetto voice: 'Beware! I have a goblin in my britches. And he's loaded.' One of the Croats begins to inch slowly towards a nearby shovel, in case the traveller needs hitting on his head to let all of the little imps out.
'Indeed, yes, my good fellow,' says the horseman. 'Out of my way, for I have business to attend to,' he points eastwards, 'in those parts.'
'Those parts?' queries a Croat. 'Are you sure, sir, that there aren't any other parts that you'd like to see. In all honesty, sir, from what I've smelt of Mittelheim, a donkey has parts I'd rather visit ...'

Suddenly, however, the other Croat gives out a shout. 'But, sir, I know you! I knew I'd seen you before. In woodcuts! You're famous! You're the famous Baron Munchausen!'
'No, I'm not.'
'You are! You are!' interjects the other Grenz excitedly. 'You so are!'
Our horseman pauses, and then sighs resignedly. 'And what if I am?'
'But you're famous, Baron sir! And rich!'
'I'm not rich. And if I'm famous, it's only because of the lies told by my damned cousin in his silly after-dinner speeches. I've had enough. I intend to find my way to a place where no one can find me, and there I shall make my fortune.'
'But sir - why? You're the talk of Europe!'
'I didn't ask to be.'
'But you're famously amusing, sir!'
'No, I'm not. That's the problem. This is the fault of my damned cousin, Gerlach Adolf: making up stories about me to make fun of my lack of a sense of humour and my complete absence of imagination. But fools believed him and took them seriously!'
The Croats look aghast. 'But, but, Baron, sir! What about your famous love of japery? And your adventures across the kingdoms of this and other worlds?'
'I hate japery. I like long religious sermons. In Latin. And I have never left Prussia.'
'But what about your trip to the moon?'
'I drank five bottles of port. After that, I could float to any heavenly body that you care to mention.'
'And the trip on the cannon ball?'
'Gerlach promised me that the gun wasn't loaded, the bastard.'
'But you picked up a carriage!'
'A marriage.'
'And the hot air balloon made of women's underwear?'
'Not a balloon. My wife.'
'But you were found inside a whale.'
'Again, my wife.'
The Croats look crestfallen. 'And your travels underwater, baron?'
'More port. I fell out of a boat.  It's not a great challenge.'
'But ... the King of the moon: whose head came off and his moon queen wife who loved you!'
The Baron nods. 'Oh, well yes: of course that's true.'
'Hurrah! really!'
'No.'

Dejectedly, the two Grenzers wave our baron onwards. There seems no reason to keep him here. As Munchausen is about to pass, one of the twosome pipes up again: 'So you've really got no funny stories?'
'No,' says the Baron firmly. 'I don't like humour, and I don't like adventure. I do like collecting potatoes and going to bed early.'
'But, you're witty and amusing ...'
'No. I'm Prussian.'
'Come on sir, I bet I can make you smile - two parrots on a perch: one says to the other "Can you smell fish?"'
Munchausen keeps riding.
'No? Nothing?' shouts the Croat. 'Well, how about two cannibals eating a clown: and then one says to the other "does this taste funny to you?" No? Not a glimmer, sir?'
Munchausen trots onwards, leaving the border post behind.

After a way, he halts. Behind, the sound of a cart can be heard. A Prussian farmer has arrived at the border post, bringing pigs to Mittelheim. Munchausen sighs. Looking down at the road, it's clear by the state of the highway where civilised Europe stops and Mittelheim starts. Then, visibly bracing himself, he spurs his horse forwards once again. But why is Baron von Munchausen entering Mittelheim? What is he really fleeing from? And what does he really hope to achieve by entering a region of Europe so backwards that even morris dancing might seem civilised by comparison. Perhaps, dear reader, if we follow the Baron, we might find out .....