Thirty - from the Whackadoodle Inn stories
From the folk stories of the Whackadoodle Inn.
_ Thirty _ by: Vixyy Fox
Thirty pieces of silver… The price of betrayal in every book ever read.
Thirty jokes never told… Moans and laughter depending upon the listeners should there have been any.
Thirty monkeys hammering away on key pounder typewriters… A dictionary in the making – or – Walter's mad back room of flying fingers.
Thirty bottles of rum on a dead man's chest… An alcoholic's worst nightmare, and yet a pirate's dream come true.
Thirty nuns a'singing… Ave Maria and a holy calling never to be frowned upon unless you're ready for repercussions.
“Wonderful music created for the creator, but is He listening?" Percival asked, sipping at his whiskey. He then added, “Throw in a priest, and what do you have?" He was a Caracal, not related to Cat Thomas Frothenshire, but visiting none the less, and patiently borne like a bad cold; his stay rather worn thin.
“I'm not really sure," Thomas replied in a hard voice; wondering how exactly he'd become saddled with this lazy nuisance. “Perhaps this one should remain listed under 'jokes never told'."
“As you wish," the larger Cat replied with a smile. “Your whiskey is good, Friend Thomas. May I have another?"
“Dead fish and guest begin to stink after three days, and you've been here much longer than that," his host replied flatly. “No more whiskey."
“You say this in the most unfriendly of ways."
“As I intended," the farmer told him. “There is a stump near the front of the barn doors. Your breakfast will be left upon it, along with half a loaf of bread towards your travels. That will be my last kindness towards you. I've had my fill of your freeloading. You are no longer a welcome guest."
The Caracal sighed. “Such is the life of a poet. I shall be off then, and please do not think me ungrateful." Rising from the porch rocker, he raised his empty glass and raised an eyebrow.
“No," was the one-word reply, and nothing further.
The barn was dark when he walked into it. There was a lamp, very carefully placed upon a post away from the stored hay, but Percival had no matches. He might have been a vagabond, but he was not a thief. At a very young age he'd found taking something without permission, got you a beating if caught. Begging something, and then given it as a gift prevented such a thing.
A match was struck on the lamp's post. It flared in the paw holding it, illuminating the face of a Bloodhound. The face did not smile, and the Caracal felt as if an icicle had suddenly pierced his heart.
“Who are you?" the Caracal asked softly. He wanted to run, but could not.
The Bloodhound turned and raising the lamp's globe, lit the wick, replaced the globe, and then adjusted the wick's length to obtain the best light. “My name is Death," he replied softly, “But if you wish, you may call me Jeff. Sometimes that makes things easier."
“Easier?"
“Your passing, of course. You have lived your life; and not very well I will add. Having a 'right good old time' does come with an expensive fee." The Bloodhound gave him a look, and smiled. “I have been sent to collect what you now owe."
Percival's legs went weak, and he slowly knelt to the hay strewn floor, finally sitting back on his tail. “But… I'm not that old."
Jeff moved away from the lamp, and sat upon a bale of hay. “You may save your words, Friend, because in my line of work, I have heard everything invented in order to prevent the inevitable." He paused, and then added, “You are, of course, entitled to a review of your life, as it was."
The pain in the cat's chest grew, and he nodded.
“Thirty pieces of silver," Jeff told him, and Percival saw a shadowy person appear to the right of the Bloodhound.
“T'was I who paid him the silver coins," this person said in a voice that told he'd been called from the beyond to testify. “My name was Howard the Hacker. I was called that cuz I had a wracking cough and the bad habit of spitting what came up on the walls around me."
“You were a most despicable person, weren't you?" Jeff asked him.
“I was."
“I was just a kit," the Caracal managed, “It was so very cold. I was hungry and afraid…
“I paid him to leave and not look back," the Hacker cut in, coughing up something and spitting it at the Cat's form, near splattering him. “She was your mother, and I burn in torment for what I did."
In the shadows beside the figure appeared another, a female dressed in rags and softly crying. She disappeared just as quickly, and with a howl of pain, Howard the Hacker was consumed by fire, gone within the smell of spent coal.
“Thirty jokes never told," Jeff said softly.
The interior of the barn was immediately emersed in bawdy laughter suggestive of a very full tavern, whose clientele were not quite sober enough to walk straight. 'But wait… I've got at least thirty more jokes to tell!' yelled out a voice Percival knew to be his own. He'd gone into the place in an effort to gain a copper coin or two. It had been a good two days since he'd had a drink, and his demons were following him… taunting him through the window to do what he had to do in order to embrace the one thing that would keep them at bay. Picking up a beer mug, he threw it at the glass, and then things became a blur as the tavern's patrons rushed him; throwing him through the same window.
“Thirty monkeys hammering away on key pounder typewriters," Death intoned as if singing a Latin high mass.
“That was a news room," Percival near whispered. “They were writing stories about me. I went to confront them, and they told me I was crazy drunk. I called them the 'Thirty Monkeys'." He chuckled, and then coughed, the pain clenching his heart like a vice. “I meant to say 'monks'… newsroom monks with no religion; but it came out wrong. They caused a fuss, so I threw a chair, and got arrested. It made the front page with even a picture… but it was still all lies."
“Thirty bottles of rum on a dead man's chest?" Jeff asked him, taking a moment to lower the lamp light.
“Getting that close?" the Cat queried, barely able to talk.
“Indeed, time is growing short," the Blood Hound replied.
“He was a bootlegger, shot dead by a rival."
“I remember that one," Death replied. “He was not a nice person."
“No point wasting any magic liquid, was there?" the Cat added with a slight smile.
“To your thinking perhaps."
“I took the bottles and someone saw, so I was blamed for the killing. I've been running from that one ever since." His eyes grew too heavy to keep open.
Thirty nuns a'singing… Ave Maria and a holy calling never to be frowned upon unless you're ready for repercussions," a new voice said softly. “Wonderful music created for the creator, but is He listening?"
“That's not you, is it Jeff?" Percival croaked.
“No, it is not," replied the voice.
“You must be the priest," the Cat managed, trying his best to open at least one eye.
“I was then, but I'm not now. Indeed… I was listening. Because I was listening, I am here now."
“The end of the line, eh?"
“It could have been, but it's not." The voice paused, and then told him, “I have chosen to take your pain as my own. That's all you need to know."
“Why?"
“Because I can."
“What's your name?
“You can call me Bob… just don't spell it backwards, because that's the other guy.
*****
Percival finally was able to open an eye. The light hurt, but he fought through the pain.
“Your breathing has changed," someone said, “And I do believe you are finally waking up. You don't stink like you did when I first came here, either. That's a good sign of healing."
The figure sitting on the chair near his bed looked to be the same Bloodhound who'd been in the barn watching him die. “Why am I here?" he asked.
“That's a good question," the Dog replied. He did not seem to be too impressed with the Cat. His eyes were milk white, and he had next to him a long stick used because of his blindness. “My name is Ben Nose. I'm the janitor of our fine church here in the valley. I am here because cousin Jeff came and asked me to do him a favor. You might know him better as Death. He's not a bad fellow, it's just that he has a job to do, and it's som'thin that has to be done. In your case, however, he was called off… you've been given another chance."
Percival managed to sit up in the bed. It was soft and clean smelling, as was his fur. “I'm still at Cat Frothenshire's place?"
“His missus found you in the barn, and you were brought here and cleaned up. They are a decent folk and it was needed done. Things have been explained to them, and they understands right enough."
“I owe him an apology."
“You owe lots of people an apology," the Dog replied, and then held out an envelope in his direction.
Percival reached out and took it, surprised that all the feelings of ill health had left him. Opening it, he removed the paper and read the words.
'Oh Percy, I have missed you so much. Please come home.'
Mother
“She's alive…" he managed.
“So it would seem," Ben agreed. “Jeff explained it to me, and he also had instructions for your person once you were able. You are to go and fetch your mother back here. When you arrive, there will be a job waiting, and a place to stay. While you are gone, you will have a devil of a time fighting your problems. Once you're back, you'll be safe from that. Scanectity's Valley is a protected place."
“How?"
“It's been arranged," the old Dog told him, his voice softening somewhat.
“Why?"
“Because a certain fella named Bob listened when ya talked to him," was the simple explanation, “You've been forgiven."