Tales from Kalgachia - 15
With the onset of the winter holiday season, the population of the town of Mirth swelled to become one of the largest in Kalgachia. Around it the Lieutenancy of Jollity, previously Toastytop and before that Northern Litovina, had retained its borders throughout the rise and fall of Ashkenatza and Minarboria thanks to the immovability of the mountain ridges which determined them. Since the dawn of history, through the ancient fleshpots of Mazeltov and the toy factories of the undead Lord Toastypops, the lands within these borders had forever been associated with the pursuit of leisure and the cultivation of happiness. The rule of the Kalgachi was no exception.
With the first accretions of ice along the banks of Mirth's eponymous river, the town's many hostelries shook off the relative dormancy of the summer months and mobilised their seasonal workers. The narrow road to the mountain heights east of town was allowed to snow over while the single off-season cable car was joined by a dozen more from the depot, filing up and down the mountainside like the feet of an upturned caterpillar. At the zenith of their route, ski slopes ran back down toward the town; good for beginners and intermediates, the guidebooks said. One slope was off-limits to civilians, reserved for KDF recruits to undergo their basic ski training before moving on to more treacherous slopes in the Lieutenancy of Oktavyan.
The town of Mirth itself was decked and rigged as if for a festive occasion, lasting for as long as the snow fell on its quaint cobbled streets. All manner of hawkers and performers arrived from across Kalgachia to fill its central square, bathed in the smoke of roasting chestnuts all day and the glow of fairy lights all night - cossack showmen came from Schlepogora to display their horsemanship; Nezeni naturalists from Lithead brought their renowned Deep Singer Petting Zoo and a gift for calming down frightened children who were not naturally inclined to pet metre-long, hissing ants with pincers big enough to crush their skulls. Amid these all manner of unregulated chapmen came to sell their wares from ad-hoc market stalls, permitted to operate after depositing appropriate gratuities of Kalgarrand with the local church partisans, their presiding Parish Credent, and the Abbot of his presiding monastery in turn. In return for these quiet tithes they generally did a roaring trade and attracted many visitors to Mirth for the sole purpose of shopping. Floating over the whole bustling scene were the melodic strains of multiple fairground organs, imported from Batavian craftsmen and operated by locals from the Lieutanancy of Jollity who were indentifiable by their pointed hats of black velvet, a throwback to the days when the only people allowed to reside in the area were Lord Toastypops' toymaking minions. These days the locals were of Lywaller stock, who naturally gravitated toward any kind of cheerfulness and established a permanent presence.
For Formius Jigg, through himself a Lywaller by blood and upbringing, a visit to Mirth was more pragmatic. His place of work, one Merrymarsh Farm some fifty kilometres northeast of Katarsis City, obtained a block of hotel bookings in Mirth each year and duly assigned them to members of their workforce by lottery. This year, Jigg's number had come up and his wife Batty, with his two young sons Chaliss and Bawl, were entitled to accompany him; together they had boarded a chartered bus with the other lucky Merrymarsh workers and their families. Now, after a stop to fit snow chains to its wheels, the bus lumbered along a ledge above the River Mirth, the glittering ice-rimmed waters below laying a path toward its namesake town.
Although Merrymarsh Farm's Froyalanish labour pool were not entitled to take part in the holiday lottery, eight workers were picked to accompany the farm's free workers - mostly gangmasters, toolsmiths and ledger keepers - on each outing. The Froyalanish were seated in the rear two rows of the bus, their seats being mere benches of hard timber seperated from the other passangers' upholstered seats by a curtain. It was their job to porter and valet for their free counterparts, carrying luggage and skiing equipment and supplying various refreshments during their wanderings. Compared to the usual back-breaking toil at Merrymarsh it was a break for them too, although the occasion inspired no more humanity toward them than usual.
As the bus finally made it into the outskirts of Mirth in the cobalt grey of the late afternoon, the curtain swished aside to reveal a Froyalaness known simply as Gudrid, who quickly replaced the curtain behind her and made her way to the front of the bus. She was unusually smartly dressed - indeed were it not for the pale blondness of her plaited hair and the resigned, glazed expression in her eyes, she may have been mistaken for a free citizen. She held a typed document in her hand which she began to read aloud:
"You are now entering the town of Mirth, where your break begins. In the river to your right you will see the Rapids of Surprise, just downstream from the-"
Chaliss Jiggs suddenly burst into cries of imitation at Gudrid's pronounced Froyalanish accent. "Hurrrdy gurd...! A-hurda-gurda-gurdy-gurd...!"
Gudrid struggled through the rest of the announcement as the other children on the bus joined in the mimicry or else shrieked and giggled with amusement, accompanied by the bellowing laughter of the adults who were equally tickled by the scene. Gudrid had tried to tone down her accent to avoid such infantile cruelties, but the weaker it got the more people seemed to taunt her. At the end of her announcement the bus driver, waiting for his moment, jerked the steering wheel hard to send Gudrid off her footing, her face smashing against the back of his seat before she crashed to the floor amid a renewed explosion of roaring hysterical laughter from the passengers. She quickly shuffled upright again, her hand raised to stem the trickle of blood seeping from her nose, and she scuttled off to disappear behind the rear curtain once more. By now the bus was proceeding through the town proper, and soon rolled up in front of the Hotel Crispyfroste where its occupants were due to stay.
Formius and his family duly checked into their suite of the hotel, their luggage carried behind them by a combination of Sigmar, one of the Froyalaners from their bus, and two of the hotel's own Froyalanish bellhops of the kind who had relieved hotel guests across Kalgachia of any moral obligation to offer a tip. They, along with Sigmar would be banished to an unheated shed at the rear of the premises when they were not working, but Formius intended to dispense with even more of his company.
"Batty my dear," he called above the drone of the suite's television set. "I was reading the guidebook on the way up here. Says the evening market knocks down their prices from the daytime. You could pick up some real bargains."
"Yes I saw that," said Batty. "But what about the boys? You know they hate me dragging them around on shopping trips. This is supposed to be a holiday for them, too."
"The fairground's open until midnight," retorted Formius. "Did you see the picture of their illuminations? It's impressive as anything."
"But it only showed carousels and stuff in the book," piped up Bawl. "That's for girls."
"But you didn't turn the page when you had the book, did you?" said Formius, reaching for the guidebook and flicking open the relevant part. "The bit about the Chunkblower."
"They've got a Chunkblower!?" Both boys' eyes were wrested from the television and they looked at their father in excitement.
"Yep," said Formius. "See here?" He showed them the open guidebook. "And see what it says underneath. If you don't spew your guts up, you get an extra ride for free. I'm especially looking at you, Chaliss... you've got your Urchagin next year and you need something to man you up. I don't want you off that ride until you've done a multicoloured yawn all over yourself."
The two boys erupted in a babbling duet of pleading at Batty, who smiled and threw up her hands. "Well why don't all of us go to town tonight?" she said.
"I would, dear," said Formius, "but that coach journey has taken it out of me. I'd better rest up tonight... it'll give me some spark tomorrow. But you go ahead. Like you said, it's a holiday for the boys. And for you too. Don't let me keep you."
"You're getting old before your time, Formy," said Batty. "You'll regret staying in when you hear what fun we've had."
"I'll make up for it tomorrow," said Formius with a wink. "Off you go... not a minute to lose!"
Batty and the two boys duly sprang to their feet and donned their winter coats, the latter being almost too excited to button themselves up. Within three minutes, the door of the hotel suite had clicked shut behind them.
"Thank fuck," said Formius the moment they were gone. With a sigh of contentment he switched the television off and went to survey his stubble in the bathroom mirror, deciding against a shave.
"Not a minute to lose," he repeated to himself as he left the suite and made straight for the hotel bar.
To Formius' disappointment none of his friends from back home were present at the bar; only three unknown men at the tables who looked equally pleased to have a moment to themselves, and one old woman at the end of the bar who gazed into a glass of neat gin as if it were a scrying mirror. The spotty youth behind the bar was quick to snap to attention as Formius approached.
"Good evening, sir," he chirped.
"Ah, good evening," said Formius, noting the young man's local accent. "I thought they'd have a Froyalaner working the bar. How did you end up here?"
"They don't let Froyalaners on here any more, sir," said the bartender. "The last one was caught spitting in the drinks and the one before him was thieving bottled beers for his fellows out back."
"I see," said Formius. "What are your hours?"
"Fourteen hundred until the last patron leaves, sir."
"And you're in all week?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good," said Formius. "So am I." He slapped two coins on the bar and slid them across with his forefingers. They were a high enough denomination of Kalgarrand that one could see the gold in them, causing the bartender's eyes to widen like saucers. "Any of this that I don't put on drinks, you get to keep," said Formius. "Just remember me first when it gets busy later on."
"Yes, sir," said the bartender with a smile, sweeping up the coins with a flourish and dropping them into his waistcoat pocket. "And what will you be having this evening?"
"Double Mishalanskaya, if you please." While the barman hopped to the relevant optic like a young deer, Formius surveyed the bar again. Since he had entered, a quartet of Nezeni girls in cocktail dresses had arranged themselves on a small stage in the corner. Each produced a silver flute from a case, assembled it, and after a few test blasts they launched into something resembling jolly elevator music.
"Ah," muttered the old gin jockey at the end of the bar. "The Shrub's own melodies." She caught Formius' eye. "I expect that's before your time, young man."
"Oh no, I remember the days of Minarbor," said Formius, knocking back the last of his Mishalanskaya and sliding the empty glass into the bartender's waiting hand for a refill. "But I didn't know he was into this music."
"Oh yes!" The old lady's eyes brightened at the chance of some pedantry. "Well you know he liked pastel colours. Nothing too offensive. The same went with his musical tastes, you see. The Minarborian church kept a special muzak orchestra to play for him. I still maintain they shouldn't have messed with such things, in view of what it caused."
"What do you mean?" said Formius, throwing the second vodka down his neck and letting the fumes waft through him.
The old lady took on a sudden alacrity. "Well the head of the Minarborian church, the Resector of Sansabury, did a very silly thing," she said. "She introduced the Shrub-God to disco. That's when things started to go wrong, you know. All that rustling boogie... it caused some great disturbance in the ley lines... brought down the whole Empire."
Formius pouted with amusement. "That's an interesting theory," he said.
"You may call it a theory, young man, but I stand by it as fact."
"You know," said Formius, reassessing the old lady through swimming eyes, "calling me a young man would imply that you're old. I can't possibly agree to that. You look after yourself far too well." He flashed a suave grin.
The old lady chuckled. "It's a while since anyone spoke to me in those terms! What a gracious fellow you are."
Formius spotted the old lady's empty gin glass and nodded at it. "Another?"
"Most kind, thank you."
Formius snapped his fingers at the bartender. "Same again both," he said. He turned his eyes back to the mature, well dressed woman who seemed to look better by the minute.
"Looks like your Papa's gone walkabout, boys." Batty emerged from the master bedroom of the hotel suite and stepped over the shopping bags she had left on the floor. "He's not crashed out in your room, is he Bawl?"
Bawl poked his head into the other bedroom and shook his head. "No, Mama."
Batty sighed and shook her head. "Are you alright in there, Chaliss?"
"Uuuurghhh..." Chaliss' groan echoed from the bathroom. His stomach had given up most of its contents toward the end of his first ride on the Chunkblower and he had been retching all the way back to the hotel. Batty, anticipating this, had toured the market stalls beforehand and picked up assorted items of discount tat. She had been quietly impressed by Bawl, who had held his digestive composure throughout his own ride on the Chunkblower and earned two further rides for free, at which point Batty had ordered him off to get Chaliss and his vomit-coated jacket back to the hotel.
"So where could Papa be!?" said Bawl, his eyes showing the first waves of quiet panic.
"Oh don't worry," hissed Batty. "I know EXACTLY where he'll be, the little swine. I'm going to go and fetch him. Look after your big brother, will you? I won't be long."
Bawl shrugged. "Okay." He marched into the bathroom to give Chaliss an earful of abusive taunts while Batty stormed out of the suite.
Downstairs the bar was heaving with patrons, the flute quartet having been replaced by a Laqi lezginka band halfway through the night. Their raucous musical broadsides and the chattering roar of the patrons could be heard for some distance up the corridor, increasing Batty's rage as she marched up to the bar's double doors and threw them open.
Amid the crowd inside she spotted Boris Fullabeans, one of Formius' friends from back home. He reacted to Batty's presence with a moment of ill-disguised shock and hastily approached her.
"Batty!" He forced a smile. Didn't expect to see you down here. We must catch up on our day, mine's been wonderful. Shall we step outside, away from all this noise?"
"Do you think I was born yesterday?" snapped Batty. "He's in here, isn't he!? He promised me he'd be in good shape tomorrow! But me and the boys will have to deal with his hangover! Again!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Boris, attempting to step in front of Batty and block her view. "I haven't seen..."
Over Boris' shoulder, Batty's eyes finally landed on her husband - whirling around on the bar's small dance floor, holding an elderly woman in a scandalously intimate manner. Around them the bar's other patrons, including some from the Merrymarsh group and a dozen KDF officers with unbuttoned uniforms, were loudly cheering on the couple with their drinks hoisted in the air, clapping and stamping in time to the music. This scene gradually blended with the increasing commotion around Batty, who had violently shoved Boris to the floor and was racing toward the dance floor. In an instant, Formius' inebriated jollity was erased as he spun the old lady around and found himself looking straight into the murderous eyes of his wife.
The effects of the vodka numbed the hard slap across his face but he heard the enthralled 'ooooh' of the crowd well enough. The old lady, having deftly escaped his grip, disappeared into the crowd like a fleeing snake. The hand of his wife was clasped firmly around his collar and he was dragged off his feet. The KDF officers laughed and stood aside to let Batty pass while the women in the crowd - including the Nezeni flute quartet who were now propping up the bar - cheered and applauded.
Sigmar had not long found sleep when he awoke to a sharp bang and the squeak of rusted door hinges from the back of the hotel. The door of the Froyalaners' shed was barred from the outside and had no windows, so he strained his ears to listen to the footsteps approaching across the yard. Then came voices.
"Batty deah," came a man's slurred voice. "I think yeh overreacting jusht a tad, eh? Eeeh wash jusht a bit of fun. I'm not even dat drunk..." There as a muffled thud. "Ooof!" said the voice. "Violensh sholves nothing, dahling." Another thud. "Owww!"
The shrill female voice of the man's assailant stabbed the night. "Why must this happen every time we do anything nice? What am I going to tell the boys? Papa feels tired like he does every time we go away somewhere? I'm done lying, you little shitbag. I'll tell them straight up! Papa's found another family, it's called Mishalanskaya Vodka and it gets the first call on his time! You've ruined our holiday!"
"Oh don't be sho dramaddic," said the man. "I'll shleep it off ahn... it'll be fine."
"Not in my bed you wont! Not after pulling that old woman... it shows how much you think of me! No, if you're going to cavort around like a dirty Froyalaner, you can go in with them!"
"Wha?"
The bar to the shed was slid off and clunked to the ground. The door was hauled open, revealing a ribbon of clear night sky which was speckled with stars. A figure was violently shoved through the gap and the door was slammed shut, the bar replaced. Footsteps drifted into the distance, accompanied by soft sobbing.
In the darkness Sigmar watched the silhouette of his visitor fumble, then a point of yellow light pierced his eyes as a match was struck. It was the man he knew as Mr. Formius Jiggs.
"Oh wow, thish ain't too nice," said Formius, the flickering flame illuminating a dirt floor covered in straw and a bucket whose contents filled the shed with the stench of urine and excrement. He surveyed the mixture of Merrymarsh Froylaners and those of the hotel, curled in various states of wakefulness on the floor, before the match went out and plunged the shed back into darkness.
"Ey, uh, Sigmar," said Formius.
"Yes Mister Jiggs?" said Sigmar, trying not to laugh.
"Where ish Gudrid? I diddun' see her."
"She is staying with the hotel manager tonight, sir. Special duties."
"Well ain't he a lucky bashtard," said Formius. "Oh well." He lurched over to an unoccupied corner and slumped to the floor. Within seconds he was snoring.
One of the other Froylaners spoke in the darkness, in his native tongue. "Shall we kill him?"
Sigmar contemplated the act for a moment. "No," he said. "They'd only kill us in return, and it wouldn't be quick. Let him live like us for a while, get a taste of his own medicine. And a taste of something else too..." Picking his way through the darkness he found the toilet bucket and carried it over to the sleeping Formius.
"This is for letting your bratty little boy humiliate Gudrid today."
Formius did not react to the bucket's contents being tipped over his face, beside a lick of his lips and a sleepy mumble:
"Bahman... gotta complaint... thish beer... ish flat."
He snored on, oblivious to the quiet giggles of the assembled Froyalaners.
