Peter Noble

THE RITES AND WRONGS OF SPRING

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    Ah, spring; when young men’s thoughts lightly turn to love. However, three interminable winter months of solitary confinement had opened Mike’s eyes to a few basic home truths, and any ideas of romantic pursuits would have to simmer on the back burner while he reflected on the gravitational pull of those unanswerable questions that have mystified scholars since time out of mind: “Is there love after love after love after love?” “What’s love got to do, got to do, got to do with it?” “What is this thing called ‘Love’?” “What was the best thing before sliced bread?” “Why is it called the tourist season if you can’t shoot them?” “When you try to do something unsuccessfully and succeed, which have you done?” Having successfully given himself an intellectual migraine, there was only one way guaranteed to clear his head of befuddled thoughts, and it was in that failsafe direction he now proceeded.

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     With the advent of springtime, the garden plot that he tended with tender loving care now promised a bounty of “Why, no constable, these aren’t cannabis, these are tomatoes. However, you can be forgiven for the error.”

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     Noontide found him blissfully sampling the harvest, when he suddenly noticed a rather large hole that had not been there previously. He began the daunting task of filling in the hazardous eyesore, when he tripped over a stepping stone and stumbled headlong into the yawning abyss. Plummeting and tumbling down, down, infinitely deeper and down, the though eventually occurred to him that perhaps this was not your everyday, garden variety of monolithic chasms, but some sort of fathomless portals to another dimension, the nature of which he was presently in no state of mind to contemplate.

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     Time wore ever onward and still further he toppled and plunged, until at least at last the decent came to a sudden and abrupt termination. With nothing to soften the fall but terra firma, he took inventory of his offended dignity and wondered just where in the name of kingdom come he had been so unceremoniously deposited.

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     Visibility being nil or nearly, his eyes slowly grew accustomed to the light, whereupon he espied a rather large signpost with numerous arrows that pointed every which way. ‘Xanadu’, ‘Shangri La’, ‘Kathmandu’, ‘Woodstock’, ‘1313 Mockingbird Lane’, ‘42nd Street’, ‘Luna Park’, ‘Jurassic Park’, ‘Lourdes’ ‘Harry’s Café de Wheels’, ‘90 miles to Griffith’s Bros Tea’, ‘Guided Tours’, ‘Quicksand’, ‘Short Cut’, ‘Dead End’, ‘No Through Road’, ‘No Expectorating’, ‘Souvenir Shop’, ‘Beware: These Arrows Have Pointy Bits’, and ‘Stop Gawking and Pick a Direction!’ Feeling a geographical migraine coming on, he was about to err on the side of caution and try and retrace his hazardous steps back home, when he found himself overhearing a nearby conversation.

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     “You really must taste this vegan mocha espresso decafé au lait with hundreds and thousands sprinkles and cherry on top,” an excited voice gushed, “It’s ever so moreish!”

     “Haven’t you drunk enough of those already?” another voice asked.

     “I drink to forget,” said the first voice.

     “Forget what?” asked the second voice.

     “I forgot.”

     “Touché.”

     “Gesundheit.”

     “Thanks.”

     “Welcome.”

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     Mike’s curiosity got the better part of him and he was determined to locate the source of such peculiarity, so with head down and heart up he prudently drew closer. Sooner than soon he happened upon a most charming dell nestling amid a clutch of willows and amassed with exotic flowers in the full bloom of springtime’s abundant splendour.

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     Utterly enchanted by the moment, he took a long and second gaze, and drew a ragged breath. There, in the centre of it all and large as life, there was an assortment of the most extraordinary individuals that he had ever encountered the likes of. Everyone was involved in various tournaments that made no sense whatsoever, nor did there seem to be any set of rules to their activities, and everything took place under the watchful scrutiny of what appeared to be royalty.

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     Numberless mismatched chairs encircled a vast table which was set for afternoon tea and the ambience, while convivial, was decidedly eccentric. Drowning out the gleeful merrymaking, the queen barked a command that sent everybody into a blind panic, causing them to abandon their recreations and trip over one another as they took their places at the table. An ominous hush fell over the assembly as they awaited her further command.

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     “Well, well, well,” she rumbled. “What do I spy with my little eye? A vacant chair? Goodness groceries how strawberries, someone’s gone A.W.O.L. If they think (0 had best () or heads will roll, and vous knows who vous is…”

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     Slowly but surely the Cheshire Cat materialised, piecemeal, until eventually it’s fragmented anatomy combined to become a complete whole. Notwithstanding the fact that its front paws were where the back paws ought to be and contrariwise, and its head was on backwards, and its pelt was on inside out.

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     The queen groaned mmmly, “He’s the only furball I know who can turn an entrance into an exit. “But where was I? Oh, yais. With the power I invest in myself, I hereby declare this fete officially open!”

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     A Walrus and a Carpenter and a dozen oysters in their half-shell, a Dutches and a Dodo, the Mock Turtle, the Jabberwocky, direct from their fateful gig on ‘()”, tuned up their instruments and rendered an unintelligible medley of non-existent tea party favourites, while Tweedles Dum and Dee conducted.

     Noticing that the queen was berating the poor old king on some breech of protocol or other, Mike dared a little closer so as to accidentally eavesdrop.

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     “And another thing, I know you’ve been raiding my wardrobe again and for the last time, go home and take off that chiffon teddy!” she bellowed. “There’s not enough room in this kingdom for two queens!” Detecting an alien presence on her xenophobic radar, and in a voice that could curdle battery acid, she commanded Jake to present herself.

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     “How very dare you presume to trespass on my hallowed realm without first grovelling for my approval which will not be forthcoming!?”

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     Never having had an audience with a monarch before, Mike adopted the credo of political correctness and complimented the queen on her regal regalia of totemic haberdashery, at which the queen momentarily mellowed, her sudden mood swing giving her whiplash, however, to Mike’s snowballing  misfortune, she rallied.