Caradoc sat with his head on the table, groaning. An empty wine bottle lay beside him, knocked over when his head hit the table last night. The bottle had been stopped from rolling off, with the dramatic smashing of glass appropriate to it, by the huge amount of clutter that covered the table. Caradoc groaned again. Then, with a whimper, he sat up.
He
gazed bleary eyed around his kitchen, struggling to find something
that was in focus. “Coff— Coff— Coffee!” he managed, as his
head dropped back onto the table.
Why
did he keep doing this? Why did he keep thinking the brief relief
from the misery that was his life, was worth the crappy way he was
going to feel the next day? With a grunt, he stood up, rocked a
little and staggered over to the stove. He stayed there, swaying
slightly, as he surveyed the piles of unwashed crockery, pots and
pans, that littered what he laughingly called “the work surfaces.”
There was a kettle here, somewhere wasn't there? Evicting most of the
new life forms that had developed since its last use, he picked up a
small saucepan from the top of a pile of unwashed plates, and tried
to put some water in it.
The
pump over the sink shrieked hideously at him as he pulled and pushed
the handle. That must be enough for a cup of coffee, he hoped, as his
head began to throb with even greater intensity. Did he feel sick? He
wasn't sure. If he did, the coffee would resolve matters, one way or
the other.
He
couldn't find the coffee cannister. A howl of frustration tried to
escape his lips, until his delicate brain told his mouth to shut up.
He looked at the water currently simmering in the pan. The liquid had
turned a dark brown colour. Coffee? he hoped. Coffee, he decided,
found a cup that looked reasonably clean, and poured the hot liquid
into it. Coffee, his brain sighed. Somewhere, the part of his brain
that was still functioning laughed to itself.
Carrying
the cup in a shaking hand, Caradoc began his journey back to the
table. Focussed entirely on his destination, his eyes didn't notice
the small creature running across his floor— but the
super-enhanced, high-fidelity hearing that comes with an economy size
hangover, heard it. He stopped, still swaying, his hand still
shaking. “What's that?” he said, and flinched. It hurt his head
to hear itself speak.
He
listened again. Whatever it was had gone or stopped. He forced his
head to tilt and look at the floor. He stared at his feet. There was
nothing there— and even if there was, he wasn't going to be able to
see it until his eyes came back into focus.
He
continued his journey across the kitchen, still looking at his feet.
It was too much effort to look back up. He crashed into the table and
his hot drink slopped out of the cup, adding a dark brown stain to
the myriad of other colours that had come together over the however
many months he had been wearing this shirt. The scalding liquid
burned him, but it was too much effort to take the shirt off, so he
suffered instead.
His
free hand managed to find the back of a chair, and he sat down
gratefully. He spotted a space on the table and placed his cup on it.
He heard the scurrying again. Could he be bothered to look for it? It
was probably only a mouse, and, as he didn't feel like eating at the
moment, it didn't need his attention yet.
He
stared into his cup and then shut his eyes. Maybe, if he
concentrated, he might be able to find his way through the fog in his
brain, and locate at least which side of the room the creature was
on.
He
listened.
There
was silence at first— evidently the creature was waiting to see
what he did. And then, there it was again, the patter of tiny feet—
tiny feet? He corrected himself. The patter of tiny-ish feet—
heading towards..? His chest of drawers?
Caradoc
frowned. What would a mouse want from his chest of drawers? All the
food was in the kitchen— admittedly, some of it even a hungry mouse
wouldn't touch— but there was some edible food there, somewhere.
Wasn't there?
Then
he heard a grunt. Caradoc frowned again. He'd had a lot of mice in
his house over the years. He couldn't recall any of them grunting.
He
took a long sip from his cup. The coffee was vile. He looked at the
brown liquid. How had he managed to make something so simple, so
badly? The conscious part of his brain coughed politely. It's not
coffee, it reminded him. Oh yes, nodded Caradoc, remembering the
stuff in the saucepan. He took another sip. He grimaced. “This
coffee tastes horrible,” he said. The conscious part of his brain
gave a tut and a deep sigh, and suggested to Caradoc,
Just-put-the-cup-down! Caradoc put the cup down.
What
to do now, he wondered. Eat something, suggested the conscious
part of his brain. “Eat?” said Caradoc. His voice sounded very
loud and rattled around in his head. Eat, he thought. Did he still
feel sick? No, he didn't think so. Food, then. What to have?
He
heard the scurrying again. Something fresh, perhaps, thought Caradoc.
If he could catch it. He listened intently, and suddenly realised his
headache had gone. Now, how had that happened? He looked accusingly
at the cup of brown stuff. Had he inadvertently made a hang-over
cure?
His
stomach gave a rumble and urged him not to get distracted. Food,
it reminded him. Ah, yes, thought Caradoc. Food. He heaved himself
out of the chair and over to his kitchen cupboards. They were empty,
except for a packet of out-of-date pasta and a jar of pickles. Pasta
and pickles? He sighed and turned his attention to the chest of
drawers. Was that creature still there?
He
drew up a chair and sat down to wait, his arms folded over his chest.
He felt a tickle on his forearm, and noticed a flea scurrying through
his hair. He tutted to himself. He'd have to get the flea powder out
again. He hated the stuff. It made him feel worse than the wine did,
and without that brief period when all seemed right with the world.
Down
by his feet, something swore. Caradoc frowned and looked down. There
was something there, but it wasn't a mouse. It reached half way up
Caradoc's shins. It was bipedal, clothed and had its arms wrapped
around several of Caradoc's gold coins.
“And
who are you?” enquired Caradoc, bending down to get a better look
at it.
“Er,”
offered the creature, its face a picture of terror.
“Er?”
repeated Caradoc. He nodded towards the gold coins. “I believe
those are mine,” he said. “What are you doing with them... Er?”
“Umm,”
said the creature and gulped.
“I
hope,” continued Caradoc, “that you weren't intending to remove
those from my premises without my permission— because that, my
little friend, would be stealing, wouldn't it?” The creature nodded
its agreement. “And stealing, I'm sure you know, is wrong, isn't
it?” The creature nodded again. “You must realise,” said
Caradoc, “that the penalty for stealing from me is— well, I
expect you can guess what the penalty is for stealing anything
from me. We don't want that now, do we?” The creature nodded with a
whimper. “Perhaps you should put it back then, so I don't
misconstrue your attempts to tidy up my cash box as theft!” The
creature gave a weak smile and a nervous laugh. “Go on, then,”
said Caradoc, “and come back here when you've finished. I need to
have a word with you about a few things I've lost recently, and which
you might be able to help me find.” He smiled at the creature.
Five
minutes later, the creature's head appeared from behind the chest of
drawers. “Ah,” said Caradoc. “There you are again. I thought I
was going to have to come and find you. Now, Er—”
“Jack,”
interrupted the creature. “My name is Jack.”
“Oh,”
said Caradoc. “I do beg your pardon. Well, Jack, I wondered, in
your travels around my home, whether you had come across either a
golden harp or a large white goose?”
“Er,”
said Jack, looking up at the ceiling, “not a golden harp, no.”
“Not
the harp? But the goose?”
“Yep,
I've seen the goose. Well, a goose, anyway,” nodded Jack.
“Where?”
asked Caradoc.
“In
your oven, Sir,” replied Jack. “At least, I think it was a goose.
It was a bit difficult to tell, without its feathers on.”
“Feathers?
Oven? Are you saying I ate it?”
“I
think so, Sir. How many of these geese have you got?”
“Just
the one.”
“And
no chickens, ducks or swans?”
“No.”
“Pigeons,
pheasants or quails?”
“No.”
“Probably
was the goose, Sir. Bad luck, Sir. Were you fond of it, Sir?”
“You
could say that, yes. When was it you saw me cooking it?”
“A
couple of weeks ago, Sir.”
“You
were here a couple of weeks ago?”
“Yes,
Sir.”
“Do
you visit this place often, then?”
“Er,
yes, Sir,” admitted Jack.
“And
why?”
“Umm—
tidying up, Sir. I just love tidying up!”
“Do
you, now? Well, you should have said. I mean, there's absolutely
loads of tidying up to do here.”
“Well,
Sir, not wanting to offend you, Sir, but you're a bit scary, Sir.
Didn't know how nice you were, Sir— so I only ever tidied up the
chest of drawers.”
“Well,
Jack,” beamed Caradoc, “it looks like it's a lucky day for both
of us. I'm a mess and you love tidying. A match made in heaven.” He
handed Jack a dishcloth. “You can start with the washing up.”
♣
Caradoc
surveyed his kitchen and gave a sigh of satisfaction. He had to take
his hat off to the boy— if he had a hat to take off. Jack had
certainly been thorough in his cleaning. He became particularly
diligent every time Caradoc wondered out loud what to have for
dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast. The kitchen gleamed. Indeed, the
whole castle shone like a new pin. He had to admit to feeling a bit
guilty, making the lad work so hard, especially when Jack mentioned
his poor old mother being all alone— and then let it slip about the
beanstalk. Well, Caradoc did what any good employer would do, and
paid the old girl a visit. Down the beanstalk he'd climbed, and what
a world it led him to! All those shops, all those... things! And now
he had a computer, and could order anything he wanted. Of course, he
couldn't get them to deliver to the top of the beanstalk, but now
Jack and his mother had no need for their house, he had everything
delivered there.
Yes,
it had been a shame about Jack and his mother. Well, when Caradoc
arrived at the cottage and found Jack's mother in possession of the
harp and the goose, what else could he do? Receiving stolen goods—
a capital offence. She had been rather tough, though. He'd been
picking bits of her out of his teeth all day.
He
heard a ping and got up to attend to the spanking new rotisserie that
had arrived this morning. Yes, it had been a shame about Jack and his
mum, especially after the month of unpaid work Jack had put in,
tidying the place up.
He
took the spit out of the rotisserie and observed the lean carcass it
had just cooked to perfection. Perhaps he should have taken the
opportunity over that month to fatten the boy up a bit. Caradoc
ripped a piece of meat off with his teeth. “Perfect,” he
muttered, wiping the grease from his face with his sleeve.
The
End
♣
©
Tracey Meredith 2015
From Grimm Stories & Other Faery Tales
From Grimm Stories & Other Faery Tales
