Quaint

By Izak R. Crafford
 

Ashope is a quaint little town, and that is if you take a very positive view of the place. If you wanted to describe its true character, you’d have to labour intensively to create a new adjective, or perhaps two or three. Adjectives appropriate to describe exactly what Ashope is like, do not exist in English or any other language yet discovered and probably will never come into existence.

The town does not look like what one would expect when hearing that word. The Royal Hotel occupies a wooden building that seems likely not to survive the next breeze; Cathedral Square is surrounded by the pub, the bank and a rather ill-built cow barn which could conceivably lay claim to being the most well-built building in the entire town; the bishop’s palace is attached to the back of the pub and mainly consists of a drinking hall, the chapel and the bishop’s sleeping quarters shunned nearly into oblivion at the back of the ramshackle structure; the duke’s palace, - for there is indeed a duke of Ashope – resembles in its architecture a stable building more than anything else and all the citizens are extremely abnormal. What is, however, normal is that the town elders meet to discuss how the town should manage a newly appeared highly infectious virus which threatens its citizens. That, however, is where normality just about ends. True, there are a few other normalities which you will observe, but they are indeed only a few.

The setting for the meeting: the room that links the noisy pub to the drinking hall in the bishop’s palace. In the middle of the room stands a large table. Though it is quite impressive when it comes to size, one of its legs has been removed for firewood and it has the unfortunate tendency to wobble dangerously if anyone unbalances it. Around this very impressive three-legged table, are arranged the town elders. The school mistress is neatly dressed and studies everything with a cool, collected expression, a bundle of papers clutched to her breast as if to shield her from something. Beside her sits the bishop, already drunk and with his Bible open on the table before him. The town mayor sits across from him, covered from head to toe in flour and with the remnants of an egg painted across his face. Mr. Banks, the bank manager, sits looking hungrily at everyone, especially at the mayor. His hungry expression is not brought on by the dried egg on the mayor’s face. At the head of the table, sits the duke, a very short, round man called Georg von Ashope. Everything from his German noble family to his title of duke is fake, but no-one seems to know or, if they do know, to mind, least of all he.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the bishop roars, setting a glass of brandy carefully on his Bible. “We are gathered here…” “I am supposed to open the meeting!” the duke squeaks indignantly. “Yes, your highness,” the bishop says sonorously. In response to those words, the duke gets up from his chair with great solemnity. Only it does not help much, as the action reduces him in hight by about two centimetres. “Your tallness!” he squeaks. “Yes, your hi… tallness,” the bishop says solemnly. “We are gathered here…” The mayor clears his throat importantly. “I am the town mayor and so I must open the meeting. Bishop, we are not in church now. We are your entire congregation, but we have little time for you now. We are here to discuss a certain virus. I don’t exactly understand it, but Mrs Learner will explain, I am sure. We must also discuss the critical problem of hackers when it comes to our mask campaign.” Looking down at the papers in his hand accusingly, he adds: “at least, that’s what these things say.” Dramatically, he throws them down onto the table which wobbles dangerously, nearly dislodging the bishop’s glass from the Bible. “Backers,” the school mistress says quietly, “backers.” “What do they have to do with anything?” inquires the duke. “Not hackers, your tallness, but backers.” “I don’t understand!” “I think,” Mrs Learner starts explaining, “that Mr. Baker thinks that I made a typo. Backers, Mr. Mayor, not hackers.” “Let’s get down to cold, hard facts,” Mr. Banks says soberly. “What you want, is cold, hard cash,” Mrs Learner says disapprovingly, gazing at him with a particularly venomous glint in her eye, “and you’ll do anything to persuade us to let you get it.”

“What is this virus?” the duke asks from his elevated position on his chair. “It has some relation to computers, I suppose?” “No, your tallness, why would you think that?” Mrs Learner inquires as if speaking to a very dull child. “Hackers,” Von Ashope mutters sullenly. “Yes, hackers,” Mr. Baker exclaims, “so you did make a typo here. See!” He lifts the papers triumphantly from the table and taps the word “backers” with his index finger. “No,” Mrs Learner says, her patience clearly approaching its limit, “we aren’t yet there and I did not make a typo.” She is quiet for a little while, then mutters to herself: “I think you’re blinded by egg white.” She composes herself with great deliberation, then scrutinises each person around the table for a long while as if to put them in their place once and for all. “The virus is very serious. It is highly contagious, meaning that it spreads rapidly. We must do all in our power to ensure that it does not find a foothold here in Ashope, else it’ll run wild. It will force us to enforce a lockdown which will have adverse consequences for all
businesses in Ashope. Not to mention the children won’t be able to go to school.” She looks around once again as if at a class of very difficult children. “And this virus will have negative effects on businesses, you say?” Mr. Banks inquires carefully. “Yes,” the school mistress says, the word sharp and clipped. “So I will experience financial problems, you mean to say?” “We all will!” she impatiently responds. “One solution that has been suggested, is that we all must start using masks. They don’t stop you getting the virus, but they do hinder the spread of it.” “What do masks have to do with computers?” the mayor wants to know, his expression one of fearful bewilderment. “Where are you coming from?” squeaks the duke. As if nothing of this happened, Mrs Learner ploughs on. “It is important, your tallness, that the ducal family be seen to be major backers of the mask campaign.” “Hackers!” the mayor exclaims. Pretending not to hear him, Mrs Learner continues. “Your family has always been a major actor in the town leadership. The citizens look up to you. If you use the masks, they will be more likely to do the same…” “Actors?” demands the duke, offended. “I am a duke, not an actor, woman. Know your place!” Mustering her patience, the school mistress says, every word carefully measured: “you are not an actor, no, but you are.” “And,” the duke squeals, “I am not wearing a mask! I am not an actor. I am a duke!” Yes, your highness… Or, I suppose,” and this with the greatest reluctance, “your tallness,.” Exasperated beyond measure, Mrs Learner looks at her papers as if praying for peace to descend upon her soul. “I think it’ll do to pray more,” the bishop says. “Masks aren’t going to help, my dear Mrs Learner. People should come to church. They’ll donate money which could be used for medical treatment for those who need it.” Looking at her
papers with grave attentiveness, the school mistress quietly mutters: “People like you, you mean, who want brandy!”

“I am not an actor,” the duke remarks once again, “no. I am not going to do that. A virus won’t dare attack a duke.” “Oh it will,” Mrs Learner says, “it doesn’t know class distinctions. It will attack you just as it will attack the rubbish remover.” “Are you calling me a rubbish remover?!” “Well,” she says, studiously inspecting her index finger, “you do live in Ashope.” “It must be a very stupid virus,” the
duke says, “obviously it does not know how important I am. I’ll show it its place.” Realising the futility of trying to persuade the duke that he is vulnerable to the virus, Mrs Learner decides to go along with that statement. “Yes, you will, your tallness, by using the masks I have ordered for us.” “Yes!” the duke exclaims, “I’ll show it its place.”

“And what about the hackers?” the mayor wants to know. “I suppose these masks are programmes you download which protect your computer?” Mr. Banks jumps upright: “Do they defend online banking platforms? I can’t risk my money and my customers’ money, you know.” “Hackers have nothing to do with this. I wrote that the ducal family must be seen to be major backers of the mask campaign. Our highly esteemed mayor thought I made a typo, which I didn’t and proceeded to missinterpret the entire document. It is of the greatest importance that we work together.” “Such wise words,” the duke says importantly, “we must work to make sure that I don’t get this virus and that my money is safe.” “So there aren’t any hackers?” the mayor asks perplexedly. “No, there aren’t any hackers, Mr. Baker.” “And I’ll get the rights to sell these mask things?” Mr. Banks asks, his hungry expression more intense than before, “Good money-making opportunity, you know.”

“This isn’t a discussion of trading rights,” Mrs Learner shouts. It seems as if she would fly towards the offending Mr. Banks and claw out his eyes if only her anatomy would permit it. With a small hand, she ineffectively slaps the table; ineffectively, that is, when it comes to silencing the men around it, perfectly effective when it comes to dislodging the bishop’s brandy glass which promptly falls over, drenches the Bible and rolls off the table to land in the mayor’s lap. “How dare you!” the bishop screams, his voice nearly equalling the duke’s in pitch. “We’ll obviously have to get me new clerical robes. Look here!” Fussily, he points at a drop of brandy that has spilt on his arm. “And the Bible,” Mrs Learner wants to know with extreme composure. “We’ll have the town buy a new one.” Again she seems as if she would take flight in order to attack, this time the bishop. “I’ll be happy to give you a bit of credit, bishop,” Mr. Banks says hungrily. “I’m not an actor,” the duke informs everyone. “Oh, you’re an imposter,” Mrs Learner informs him, again extremely calm. “An imposter?” “We are all supposed to work for the good of the people!” she says. “And here we are, everyone pursuing only their own gain. What’s up with you all?” Mr. Banks studies her for a long time, a slightly fearful expression crossing his features fleetingly: “Well, dear, if I don’t prosper, noone else can…”

“Mr. Baker! You’ll have to reduce the price of your bread. If businesses have to close, people won’t be able to afford bread.” “No, no, no,” the bank manager says quickly, “then he won’t be able to pay off his various debts!” “That’s what my wife says,” the mayor says. “And that is probably why she threw an egg at you.” “Yes.” “At least, the school mistress says, “you’re halfway there when it comes to being masked.”