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“It Happens Every
May Day”
by E.O. Costello © 2008 The characters of B’onss, K’nutt, Sgt. Brush and Kara Karoksdottir are all © E.O. Costello The eldest cub in the family usually gets special privileges. In my particular case, my father worked a number of overtime shifts with the Spontoon Islands Constabulary to pay for extra tutoring and my legal education. Now, I’ll grant you, my siblings didn’t really need the same treatment. Orrin (or Karok-son-Karok, if you prefer) went into the Constabulary, like his father. His education largely consisted of instructional sessions conducted out of sight of mate and mother in the art of applying the blackjack. (And yes, we had meat for dinner that was unusually tender.) And then again, there were my two youngest sibilings, B’onss and K’nutt. Education on the twins would have been largely wasted. Have you ever tried to make a jellyfish stick to the wall? Then you have a rough idea of how Knowledge would have acted upon them. A brief, squelching noise, followed by a quick slide out of sight, leaving a messy blotch where the attempt had been made. It was worse with B’onss, who acted as if he, not me, were the one who was the leading brain of the Spontoon Islands bar. I will admit that if I ever took him out of his grass skirt and cowrie-shell necklace, and put him in a suit, he’d have a jury tied up in knots inside five minutes. If the magistrates didn’t kill him first. Strictly an effort in self-preservation of sanity, mind you. Remind me, in another story, to tell you about the time he argued – literally! – that black was white and vice versa. What worried me was that around about the second hour, he was starting to have some success in putting it across. It was only when I showed him the difference between my black vulpine footpad and his white vulpine hindquarters that I managed to get him to shut up. K’nutt. Hmm. Now that’s a different story. On the outside, a rather sweet, nice-looking fox with an almost totally vacant, moon-struck look and an exasperating habit of introducing cocoanuts into nearly every conversation. Now, I assume that on the inside of his skull, he’s as empty as his expression on the outside. Assume, mark you. There are any number of times I’ve turned on him quickly, hoping to catch some look of cunning on his face. I’m convinced he’s having me on, and that no fur alive could possibly be as stupid as he is. I mean, for pity’s sake, with all the Wise Ones we have on each side of the family, you’d think it would be impossible to…well, never mind. Anyway, as I’ve said, I have special privileges. And a few special duties. Such as having to sit next to these two at breakfast. Did I say duties? Strike that. Make that “torture.” Trying to concentrate on your docket for the day, especially when you have an important argument coming up against somefur like Magistrate Spaniel, is nearly impossible, when you can see out of the corner of your eye that one of your kith and kin is attempting to butter a cocoanut. Really, how is rational thought possible after seeing that? Making it worse was that the two were squabbling over some inane project of B’onss’. To the extent that I was willing to devote any effort into teasing out some meaning, it had to do with making “improvements” on Great-Great-Grandfather’s recipe for Sour Cocoanut Popskull. Considering that the authentic article in question was powerful enough to eat holes in the carpet and clean motor-engines, one could only imagine what “improvements” would entail. Intervention was necessary. “Look, you two. I don’t know what idiot scheme you’re up to, but I’m telling you, if you mess with Dad’s still, you’re for it. That’s his hobby, and how he gets his pocket money, and if you break anything…” B’onss scowled at me. “Leave us not worry about nuttin’. I bin’ makin’ various aquamarines of assorted cattles what is going to allow me to infect the process a’ disturbin’ my recipe.” This was entirely too early in the morning for simultaneous, especially after last night…and a rather unpleasant leer from Baby Brother indicated he knew something, or rather had something. Namely, a Bruinie camera. “Give me that!” “Uh-unh!” “B’onss, give me that camera now, or I’ll tell Mom how that idol in the living room turned green.” K’nutt gave up buttering his cocoanut when it slipped out of his paws and dropped to the floor. After hitting my foot. “S-s-she knows, Kara. She m-m-made B’onss weed th’ garden wit’ his paws yestiddy…” Two loud smacks indicated displeasure at tattle-taling and spoiling blackmail attempts. “All right. What have you got in that camera, you little rotter?” “F-f-film?” “I’m not asking YOU. I’m asking HIM.” B’onss wiggled his eyebrows. “I dunno, Big Sister. How’dja manage t’do dat wit’ Marty Blackpaw, anyhoo?” K’nutt, having picked up his cocoanut, looked at me with an air of someone yearning for practical knowledge. “D-d-didn’t it hurt when he hadja in that w-w-restlin’ hold, bein’ on toppaya like dat?” In the first place, I was NOT wrestling. Secondly, what I did with my todfox friends was none of their business. But right now, B’onss had the camera out of paw’s reach, and my foot hurt from where K’nutt dropped the cocoanut. I half-suspected an orchestrated plan, either by this pair of dimwits or the Gods, I know not which. “All right. All right. I’ll keep quiet. THIS TIME. But when Dad spanks you under your brushes, don’t come crying to me.” Another sneer from B’onss. “Ehhhhhhhhhh. Youse didn’t cry last night when youse got yer spankin’ from Marty…” I really didn’t relish the idea of being arrested by my other todfox sibling, so it was at that point that I left for work. Conversation at work was annoying, but for a somewhat different reason. This year’s May Day holiday was going to be capped by a Kilikiti match. Now, allegedly, this was going to be between two of the villages on the Main Island. As a practical matter, owing to a very hazy definition of what or who constitutes a “villager,” the two villages in question have been hiring “ringers” for a number of years now. Part of it is to one-up the other village, and part of it is to get around the Professional Athletes Act of 1927, which taxes at 90% the earnings of any professional athletes in the Spontoons, except for those appearing for the Islands as a whole, or any village subdivision of same. When you’re trying to pass off an oryx who speaks only Arabic as a Main Island villager, no grass skirt is truly convincing enough. Anyway, as usual, the Uplands area (which includes my home village) and the Main Village were up to their usual tricks, and the spotty little Herberts who were the clerks in my office were chattering loudly as to the relative merits of one team or the other. Eventually, I had to send them to move heavy boxes of law books to get them out of my hearing. No relief was granted by lunch. Every fur in Luchow’s was talking about the tryouts the following day that were going to be held on the High School grounds. Well, every fur but one. The chef, when asked, indicated that he preferred wrestling. Alas, there was some thread in the conversation that I missed, because when I next looked up, I saw that he had just managed to duck a flying knife from Vicky, the waitress. I mean, really. Must furs comment on the social lives of vixens like that? On my way up the hill going home, I was wondering what on earth was going on. For one thing, there was an absolutely hideous smell that had settled over my village like a fog. For another thing, there were two Wise Ones who were crouched behind a rock, looking puzzled and holding their noses. If something baffles a Wise One, you know you’re in for a treat. The last thing that puzzled me was the sight of two awfully familiar hindquarters, namely, those of my two baby brothers. They were each bent over a chair in front of our longhouse, along with all of the other furniture, which seemed in very bad need of airing. I should say more accurately, TRYING to bend over a chair, because the chairs kept sliding away from them. Even more interesting, my father had a Kilikiti bat, in which he was attempting to enforce discipline. It wasn’t working. I was amazed. As I watched, he kept missing. How do you miss such a large target, and more to the point, one he was very familiar with from past experience? And Dad had hefted a mean Kilikiti bat in his days of youth, or so I was told. Both B’onss and K’nutt were pitch-black in front, and their fur was matted all over as if they’d been dunked in…well, I wasn’t sure what. Orrin seemed to have a better idea, and regretted his knowledge. It was a little hard to make out what he was saying, especially after my father gave up on the Kilikiti bat, and began to use his belt, with more success. I gathered that, among other things, what appeared to be a failed experiment in brewing involved some durian pulp, cheap cologne, a quart of some very well-aged Sour Cocoanut Popskull, some of Dad’s best distilling equipment, and an open flame. One could argue that it was the last element that was the deciding factor, but the list of ingredients was certainly a contributing factor. After justice was meted out, the two were shipped off to weed the garden. Which proved to be somewhat difficult, as the two slackers couldn’t seem to hang on to a hoe and rake. Much acrimony followed. Meanwhile, my older brother, with a policefur’s instinct for bravery, was holding out a large broken glass bottle of something that had a strange yellow-green liquid in it. At full arm’s length. He poured it into a smaller jar, and tightly sealed it, and then proceeded to bury it. Unconsecrated ground, too. I spent the night with Tommy Deepden, who wouldn’t shut up about the tryouts. I had to find another way to keep him occupied and quiet. Mom served breakfast out of doors. The two budding chemists sat on the ground, partly in punishment, and partly because the chairs kept sliding away from them. A Wise One, no doubt, would see significance in that. Dad, unusually, was present at breakfast, glaring at B’onss and K’nutt. Apparently, they were under orders to buy some replacement glassware on Meeting Island, with no funny business. None whatsoever. You’d think my father, with all his experience, would learn… B’onss was attempting to read the Daily Elele, but it kept moving away from him. You know, I’ve often seen bureaucrats who wished the Mirror would do that. I think he was trying to read the sports. Or maybe the comics, I don’t know. Eventually, he weighed the paper down with a rock and bent over it, which may not have been the wisest thing to do, my father having his footpad so close. Anyhow, after picking himself up from about six feet away (having stuck the landing), he suddenly had an expression of great cunning, and promised up, down and sideways that he and K’nutt would go to Meeting Island that day. K’nutt, who was making all gone with a bowl of durian, was too glum to disagree. K’nutt also promised to clean up the yard before he left. K’nutt, promising to do a chore? If Orrin had been around, I’d have had him take out the pawcuffs, but the lawyer in me said I had no evidence, just past experience, to go on. I let it ride. Perhaps an error. Anyway, the morning was uneventful, largely because “tout Meeting Island” (as they’d say in Paris) had gone over to the High School to see the tryouts. Peace and quiet at last. I managed to get a good day’s work done by lunch, and to treat myself, I turned on Radio LONO, which was broadcasting coverage of the tryouts. Even that couldn’t spoil my good mood. I largely tuned out the announcer, whose excitement seemed to be building by the minute. I was on the verge of unplugging the radio in annoyance when I was brought short by this: “(Record bowling Kilikiti broken K’nutt-son-Karok is emphasis. Excite crowd growing multiple, additionally cheering multiple is emphasis.)” I could hear my jaw creaking as it hit my footpads. There had to be some sort of mistake. K’nutt had as much paw-eye coordination as a box of clams, and I know for an iron-clad fact he knew as much about Kilikiti as I did about Urdu poetry. This called for investigation. Now, maybe I was joking when I said “tout Meeting Island” was at the High School watching the tryouts, but I found that I may not have been exaggerating. There was a crowd of at least a few thousand, and it was growing by the dozens and dozens. I managed to push and pull through to where I could see the field, and was greeted by an amazing sight. Namely, the sight of my little brother K’nutt clumsily running up, nearly tripping over his brush no less than three times, and then managing to throw the leaf-wrapped kilikiti ball in a weak arc toward a gigantic water buffalo, who was licking his chops at the thought of duplicating some of the experiments of Robert Goddard. Five seconds later, the water buffalo was twisted in a pretzel, with the umpire’s paw in the air, calling him out as the wicket leaned crookedly to one side. Thunderous cheers. Something besides the wicket seemed crooked to me, but I’m hanged if I could see what it was. Batsfur after batsfur went down before balls that I could probably outrun. Much discussion in the crowd about “googlie” technique. Even more discussion about how the Main Village better watch out this year, or they were going to be humiliated. K’nutt seemed to be nervous. He kept wringing his paws over and over and wiping them with a rag. This seemed odd for a fox who had to be reminded daily what the exact technique was for washing behind one’s prominent ears. There was no doubt that K’nutt was the People’s Choice, and he was carried off on the shoulders of the crowd, while the last batsfur he faced broke his bat across his knee. Over in a shadier, and I do mean shadier, part of the stands, another fox of great familiarity was doing something unusual. That is, writing and handling money, two things I rarely saw him do with any sort of fluency. Now I KNEW for an absolute fact that something underpawed was going on, but I couldn’t figure out what. I broke two dates in order to be home for dinner. I was nearly blinded by the haloes over the heads of B’onss and K’nutt. Butter couldn’t have melted in their mouths (given the way they eat, it wouldn’t have time). Dad couldn’t figure it out. The replacement parts for the still had been brought home, intact even, so he couldn’t do anything about that. And Orrin swore up and down they hadn’t broken any laws. AND K’nutt had washed his paws three times before dinner, without even being asked. Before going to bed (the beds were still outside, at least for the moment), I borrowed from Orrin a copy of the Kilikiti rules. My keen legal mind sensed that something was up, but I couldn’t figure out what. It was only after boring myself witless for hours reading and rereading Kilikiti rules (I suppose the only thing worse would be actually watching a match under the rules) that I found the little passage I’d been looking for. A few moments of thought, and I realized that B’onss, bless his pointy head, had actually managed to concoct a foolproof scheme. Foolproof, even damnfoolproof (it would have to be, with K’nutt’s involvement), but NOT vixen-proof. Luckily, there were a few days before the match, which allowed me to do a few things. One was to get each of my todfriends to put down some substantial bets against the Uplands team. Another was to get Dr. Musine to mix a little “cocktail” for me (in return for which I promised to go easy on him the next time he testified in court). Lastly, it required sneaking around when the Naked Geniuses were beddie-byes. Given that those two could sleep through a volcanic eruption, not too difficult. I managed to get a box-seat for the first day of the match, in part by making certain promises to a friend that I would have to keep a few nights later, just as soon as I could borrow a lady constable’s costume. Sure enough, onto the field trotted both teams, with the loudest cheering for the bowler of the Uplands team. Who was given a “lucky pawkerchief” by the scorekeeper for Uplands, who happened to be his brother. It was with great confidence on his part that he faced the first batsfur, a stern looking moose who had a RINS tattoo on his bicep, proving at least that he had SOME connection to the Islands. Back trotted K’nutt, and then up…well, it’s kind of hard to describe a motion that involved nearly falling down twice, and falling down at the end. Lucky he DID fall down, because if he’d been standing, the first shot off the moose’s bat would likely have knocked his head off, no great loss. The crowd was hushed and surprised, and continued to be surprised as the moose kept rocketing shots off his bat all around the field. There was a brief delay while one ball had to be retrieved from the harbour where it had landed, about 550 feet away. It would have gone further, only it had hit a gull as it was rising. Things went sort of downhill from there. B’onss, over near the scorebook, had to get another sheet. The moose was finally caught out by one fielder, who immediately had to stick his paw in a bucket of ice to stop the throbbing. Luncheon interval found the Uplands down by about 243 runs, one out. I went to the refreshments tent as fast as I could go. Developments were surely in the offering, and I was not disappointed. An irate B’onss, catching sight of his brother, chose to address him in a voice that you could have heard clear over on Eastern Island: “YA LAMEBRAIN! DIDJA FERGIT THE STUFF?” “B-b-b-b-b-b-b-but B-b-b-b-b-b’onss…” Worse stutter than usual. “I d-d-d-dunno what aaaaain’t w-w-w-orkin’…” B’onss was on the verge of another verbal effort at his brother – he’d taken a deep breath – when he felt a tap on his shoulder. One of the umpires had a pained enquiry to make. “I beg your pardon, but are you implying that Mr. K’nutt is using a foreign substance on the ball?” This was perhaps not the best time for B’onss to show off his truth-telling abilities, but he did so, oblivious of the fact that he had as an audience a few hundred folks he’d taken bets from. “It ain’t furrin! I made th’ stuff right at home, see?” K’nutt demonstrated that he had not forgotten the instincts that our wild ancestors had millennia ago, by making a hasty and bounding retreat out of the tent, about one-half step ahead of a number of outraged Uplands neighbours. B’onss, for his part, managed to secrete himself in an urn of lemonade, and I’ll bet he wasn’t improving the flavour, either. The ensuing riot was nearly of Reggie Buckhorn proportions, and took most of the Constabulary and some of the Fire Brigade to settle. Speaking of settling, my winnings covered the massive bookmaking losses that B’onss had incurred. There was a small bit left over, so I bought a kilikiti bat. I found it very useful at the breakfast table when I wanted some peace and quiet. end |