The Legend of the Wolperdinger

I'm writing a story at the moment. It's an idea I've had for some time and I had been occasionally tinkering with it, then thinking, 'What a load of rubbish.' and leaving it, then returning only to repeat the same situation like some Ground Hog Day loop. It was only when I told myself that no one would ever have to see it and I could just write it for me that I suddenly found myself writing almost feverishly, in my spare time, in my breaks, at 3 a.m. even up at 5 on a Sunday for a session.

The story is titled: The Lone Dining Society. But it has nothing to do with any band, as in musical group. And I still don't know whether it will ever pass over into the world to be read by anyone else yet, and as long as this perspective keeps me being creative, I will at the moment leave it at that.

But as part of the story, there is a book within a book. And this is "The Legend of the Wolperdinger". And in a moment of madness I thought I would make it available as something of a 'single' from the 'album' of the main body of work (if it's ever released that is).

Actually writing stories is not really a new thing for me. It was something I would do whilst on holiday as a child with my parents in the caravan on many a rainy summer day in England, sitting cosily by the window as the rain hammered down. I remember quite well a short series of stories I wrote based on the character "Felina the Fairy". Perhaps you might think it strange for a small boy to write such things. And you may. I even sent off my manuscripts to Penguin Publishing at age, I think it was around 9. Of course this didn't catapult me to any sort of fame and fortune, but they wrote me a rather nice rejection letter.

Anyway, I suppose the main reason for releasing this "extract" from the main story, is just to test the waters, to see if some people take any sort of liking to it.

And I thought as a little taster, or starter, I would show the first part of this short story in the hope that a million people may be drawn in, make a purchase and then I could have myself a nice summer holiday, perhaps in the Cotswolds or in Cornwall by the sea. With the obligatory umbrella of course. So, here it is:

The Legend of the Wolperdinger

Once upon a time there were two kingdoms and they hated each other. That is to say, the two kings hated each other and because of that they were constantly fighting, or at least that is to say, their subjects, the common people (or peasants as they were known) were made to fight each other, whilst the two kings stood in the background and shook their fists from a safe distance.               

There was a reason that the two kings hated each other, whether it was a good one or not perhaps you can decide for yourselves.               

And the reason was this: King Ay?’s kingdom, or realm, called Ay? was abundant with rabbits and almost overrun with squirrels. The bordering land, Bee! ruled over by King Bee! was rich with running deer and the skies were filled with pheasant.               

If you’re confused it is because we haven’t reached the crux of the reason yet, we are just setting it up, so please be patient.               

Both kings shared a love of hunting, but both for different sport and for very different reasons.               

King Ay? was a confused and tormented soul that was forever mixing things up that to his mind seemed similar. He confused the letter S with the number 6, apples with pears and sometimes pairs, chalk with cheese, please with ease, gate with hate, mate with plate, bier with beer, deer with dear, ascent with descent and pheasant with peasant. Talking of peasants, oh how King Ay? hated them. He hated them with such a dislike that he found it hard to concentrate on his kingly duties of which there were precious few.               

He also mixed up his wife too. Which may seem odd, but King Ay? was a very odd individual. And not surprisingly his wife didn’t take too kindly to being mixed up with another lady: for King Ay? would never mix up his wife with a peasant (which he hated quite a little bit), only other noble ladies at court.               

His real wife would nag, scold and harangue him. He would constantly have to listen to, ‘Dear, that is not your dear! I’m your dear, over here! Dearie, dearie me!’. It quite drove him up the castle wall.               

And who did he blame for this? Not himself. He blamed the poor peasants, that's who, and they were.               

Poor that is.               

And so he began to develop something of a resentment of both his “dear” and the peasants in almost equal measure. But as it just wasn’t done to drop one’s wife into some bottomless and soundproofed pit and it wasn’t considered good sport to hunt the peasants he decided he had to find some other cathartic release.               

Now, as he often confused dear with deer and peasant with pheasant, he convinced himself that these two mix ups were interchangeable and really, and in his mind only, they were essentially the same thing. And so was born King Ay?’s love of hunting both deer and pheasant.               

Are you still there? Good, then we will continue. The “reason” will become clear presently.               

King Bee! on the other hand was not confused and he knew exactly what he wanted and exactly what he didn’t want. And what he didn’t want was any reference related to what he referred to as “the unmentionables”. And as this is a folk tale and for folk of all ages, it is difficult to decently mention exactly what “the unmentionables” are without procuring a head, blushing bright red, like a huge (throbbing[1]) strawberry.               

But in the hope of clarity, the “unmentionables” were sometimes analogised as “The birds and the bees”.               

Yes, King Bee! was what is generally known as a prude. He commanded that all ladies should cover up any bare skin below the neck (aside from the hands, although most ladies at court also wore silk gloves) and long skirts should be worn almost to ground level. Showing the leg of a lady in public was considered very bad form and therefore was made into an illegal act.               

So much was the obsession over bare legs that even the legs of tables were covered either by knitted table leg “stockings” or by extra long hanging table cloths.               

Men were also expected to keep their meat and two veg covered at all times.               

King Bee! also abhorred innuendo and for that reason it is a jolly good thing that this tale was written some years after the passing of the king.               

Anything, anything at all that reminded King Bee! of “the unmentionables” would propel him into such a rage and bring on a case of the apoplectics. And one animal more than any other to do absolutely no good for his blood pressure was the rabbit. He hated rabbits for their frivolity and open antagonising provocation through what he saw was an excessive and wholly unnecessary overdoing of “the unmentionables”. It was said that the king in Spring was at his worst and he would pace around in his chambers and many repetitions of, ‘Effing rabbits!’ and ‘always going at it!’ could be heard echoing over the courtyard.               

Rabbits were his pet peeve. But a close second was the squirrel. As you’ve already learned, King Bee! hated innuendo and for that reason he hated the squirrel for they were “always having a nibble…. on their nuts”. Oh, he just couldn’t stand it, so base, so common, so immature, so unrefined.               

So through his hatred he developed a lasting love, nay, a passion for hunting both rabbit and squirrel. Oh how he would be up and at it early in the morning in all his glory, his hot blood pumping.               

A virile stag, a magnificent glistening beast of a majestic animal pumping away at the well until the water ejaculated with a gush to fill his dry yearning flagon for the day’s hunt ahead.               

Now, another thing both kings had in common was they were both vegetarian, so they didn’t actually eat anything that they hunted. They just had the animals stuffed. It was said that King Bee! in particular enjoyed stuffing the animals himself.               

And where do you think they displayed this rather large collection of taxidermical specimens?               

In their private chambers? In the courtly dining halls? In public museums and galleries for the pleasure of the pheasants and to impress on them the virility and outstanding skill of both royals?               

No, none of them. They displayed them on the border where both kingdoms met. You might think this a very strange thing to do. And it was. But they did it in order to wind the other up.               

And why would that antagonise the other I hear nobody ask? Because you’ve worked it out already, haven’t you?

THE END

Sorry, just jesting, it’s not the end. ……ha ha!               

Of course the reason is for the simple fact that King Ay?’s land had no deer or pheasant and King Bee!’s land had no rabbits or squirrels.               

So in order to quench their mutual and individualised hunting desires, they had to sneak into each other’s kingdoms to hunt. And they did this without asking, because they were kings and asking other people’s permission was beneath them.               

Of course this made both kings absolutely furious, for as we all know, breaking into someone else’s house without asking permission is a no no.               

So that is the reason that both kings hated each other.               

The wars raged on and on and in every season, excepting a short break in the Spring by request of King Bee! And as the peasants did most of the fighting, after a while, well, they just found it exhausting and would after a day’s fighting return to the pub to have a good moan about it.               

After a goodish while, the peasants found the fighting day in, day out just too much to bear and organised a secret meeting where representatives of both sides would meet at a local tavern near the border.               

The meeting started off pretty well but as the beer flowed, insults started to be thrown between the opposing peasants and it wasn’t too long before a fight broke out.               

After a while when it was becoming clear that nobody was going to win they sat back down in despair. It seemed clear that nothing would end this war and they would be cursed to fight for eternity. And that seemed like a ruddy long time.               

But then a young boy with bloodied nose and a dreadful looking eye that would be, sure as rain, turning black in the morning, spoke, ‘I heard of a witch, a witch that lives not far from here along the border in a dark cave. She’s ugly and old and can turn pigs into bacon sandwiches just with the snap of her fingers. Oh, she’s powerful alright. Maybe we can ask her to help us?’               

At first all the peasants said ‘Stupid boy!’ or words to that effect, because they all knew that witches were evil and were not to be trusted, bacon sandwich or not. But eventually after many other equally stupid suggestions, all from the same Stupid boy, they came to realise that there were simply no other options and desperate times called for desperate measures. They had to try. Perhaps they could give Stupid Boy up as sacrificial payment as he was after all the one that had suggested it.               

So off they went to find the evil witch’s cave. They found it on a hill overlooking a very familiar and barren field. The field where the peasants had been battling each other for years. ‘Oh!’ said Stupid Boy, ‘Isn’t that where..?’ he said pointing to the field.               

‘Yes.’ replied an elder peasant, ‘But don’t worry about that now lad, we have a witch to find.’               

The mouth of the cave was not too wide, perhaps the length of a donkey but it was as black as coal and nothing could be seen inside it. Nobody wanted to be the first to enter.               

‘Send Stupid Boy!’ someone whispered.               

‘Why me?’ protested Stupid Boy also in a low voice, because they were all afraid they would disturb the witch and disturbed witches are often amongst the worst sort to have coming at you screaming like some demented banshee from the depths of the abyss.               

‘Because you’re stupid, Stupid!’ someone else whispered.               

‘My name may be Stupid, but I am not that stupid!’               

‘Go on!’ someone shout-whispered, pushing Stupid forward.               

Now Stupid was a sensitive boy and was very much into more gentle and creative pursuits such as painting, making sculptures out of mud and of course his favourite, dancing. He’d much rather spend his time on these activities than the daily grind at the front lines fighting with a large root vegetable in his hand.[2]                

So due to this proclivity in particular for dancing, as Stupid was propelled forward towards the cave interior, he pirouetted, side stepped and foxtrotted to divert his forward momentum and to his relief was brought up against the side of the cave’s mouth.               

He was about to turn and curse whoever had pushed him when he noticed something peculiar next to his head fixed onto the craggy rock. It was a round polished piece of brass that was elaborately decorated. As he looked closer he was sure he could make out eating implements and in the centre was an even more polished brass button.               

He turned to face the other peasants, who were keeping a cowered distance at a shake. ‘Hey, there’s a button.’ he shout-whispered.               

‘Don’t press it!’ the peasants collectively shout-whispered back.               

The boy would go down in history, for his name was Stupid. He pressed the button.               

There was a strange buzzing sound, followed by a pause, then a crackle and then a voice that sounded like it was a bee stuck in a jam jar. ‘Yes? What do you want?’               

Stupid looked back around at the peasants for support. They all shook their heads, a couple drew their fingers under their throats. Stupid nodded and turned back to the brass device.               

‘Er… we’re looking for the witch.’ he said.               

There was an eruption of whispered-shouts behind him, some with, ‘No!’, some, ‘What are you doing?’ and some simply, ‘Stupid boy!’               

The device crackled once more and the bee in a jar voice said, ‘And what do you want with the witch?’               

‘We need help.’               

‘What with?’               

‘We need to end a war.’               

‘Ah, which war?’               

‘Er… it’s not a witch war. It’s a war between the kingdoms of Ay? and Bee!.’ Stupid said, starting to feel a glowing pride that he was the one negotiating with whomever this was on behalf of his people. He looked back to the huddle of peasants with a huge grin, only to see almost every peasant, to a man, with both hands over their eyes, some shaking their heads.               

‘You’re not talking about that awful racket going on all day, every day in the next field, ruffians raving and dancing around waving obscene root vegetables and throwing tomatoes at each other like a bunch of no good students with nothing better to do all day?!’ the bee-jar voice rattled irritably.               

Stupid didn’t understand the word “students” but he did think that she’d summarised the horrors of the war quite accurately. ‘Er… yes I think so.’               

There was an almost unbearable pause, during which an apologetic squeaky voice amongst the peasants desperately squeaked, ‘I need to go!’ and from the back of the group the sound of footsteps running away could be heard, followed by a zipping sound and a sigh of relief.               

‘I think you’d better come up.’ the bee-jar voice said flatly.               

‘Come. Up?’ Stupid replied, thoroughly confused.               

‘Come in. I meant, come in.’               

‘Oh, okay.’               

Stupid looked back once more to his peasant comrades for guidance and support. They looked back at him with an expression that Stupid could only read as something along the lines of, ‘Don’t eff this up!’.               

He didn’t quite understand what the “F” stood for, but he gave a confident smile in return as if to say, ‘Don’t worry, whatever “F” is, I won’t be upping it!’               

At the back of the peasant huddle, Fool Of A Boy whisper-asked Baffoon Boy, ‘What does that expression mean?’               

Baffoon Boy turned to Fool Of A Boy, shaking his head whispering, ‘It means, don’t worry, no half measures here. It’s the full deal! I am a complete and utter idiot.’.               

Stupid turned back to the dark abyss of the cave’s mouth, uttered a Bee!-nian phrase of fertility and luck, ‘May the carrot’s girth be gross.’ and disappeared into the darkness.

It was the blackest black Stupid had ever encountered. He waved his hand in front of his eyes, but could see absolutely nothing. It was more than black, it was nothingness. The complete absence of light. The absence of everything. He was beginning to fear that he himself did not exist.

Then suddenly the lights flickered on and there he was in a large alien room, bright lights, metal structures towering up around him and directly in front what looked like a box encased in a huge glass structure that disappeared high up into the ceiling.

For most normal people, all this strangeness, this vast unimaginable structure never seen before in their lifetimes might be enough to send them into xenophobic shock. But not he, for he was Stupid, and the whole of his peasant comrades, including the daughters, mothers, grandmothers, wives and especially Dizzy Girl who had stolen his heart and waited at home, endeavouring to grow ever larger and more viciously ribbed root vegetables were all relying upon him.

He swaggered forward towards the glass case and box with only a confidence that Stupid could bring. He’d spotted another button on the right side of the glass case. Without hesitating, he pressed it. After all, the first button pressing had turned out well. What could possibly go wrong?

Glass doors opened allowing access to the box. Well, in for a pfenning, in for a pound of best turnips, Stupid thought as Stupid often does and walked into the box.

He stood there for a while, wondering what might be coming next. And when nothing did come next he glanced around a little. ‘Ohhhhh! More buttons.’ he said to himself, noticing a panel with some buttons on it.

‘This hero business is so overrated.’ he said, ‘In the end it all comes down to just pressing buttons.’. He studied the panel with slightly squinted eyes. There was a button with two triangles pointing towards each other, one with two triangles pointing apart and one with a shape that went up and curled around to the right to touch itself in the middle. He didn’t quite like the look of that one. As with most, if not all peasants, Stupid had never been given the opportunity to learn to read or write, otherwise “poet” may have been added to his list of favourite out of war pastimes.

‘Hmmm, maybe this hero business is trickier than I thought?’ he pondered out loud.

There was a crackle and then a bee-jar laugh.

‘What? What?’ Stupid asked to nowhere in particular.

‘Oh, nothing.’ came the bee-jar reply. There was a crackle and then silence.

Stupid looked to his left. He looked to his right, shrugged his shoulders and then spent a moment looking straight ahead. He scratched his nose. He looked at all three buttons in turn.

He pressed the button with the two triangles facing out.

The glass doors opened.

‘Nice.’ he said.

He pressed the button with the triangles facing in.

The glass doors closed.

‘Ooh, has the temperature dropped?’ he stated in his best hero voice. He’d heard the word “temperature” in a play by a band of travelling thespians that had set up theatre near his village one summer. After the performance he’d hung around to talk to the “thessers”, as he supposed they were called and had asked what the word “ten-pa-tur” meant. Luckily these thessers were used to deciphering all manner of foreign accents and pronunciations due to being thoroughly well travelled and were able to explain that it pertained to degrees of warmth or states of coldness. For instance, they explained, if something becomes “cool” it is because the temperature has dropped.

Although he was Stupid, he did have the ability to retain anything that he was able to understand. And he thought to himself that that was certainly “temperature dropping”.

He looked around the box to see if there was anything else to discover, but he couldn’t see anything of any importance, so he stood for a while, then he pressed the button with the triangles facing out. The glass doors opened.

‘Nice.’ he said, smiling. He was definitely getting the hang of this.

He looked back at the buttons, ‘And now you, my beauty,’ he addressed the button with the triangles facing in as he pressed it. The glass doors closed.

There was a crackle followed by an angry bee-jar voice, ‘Oh, just press the P button for expletive-deletive sake!’

Stupid’s mouth fell open upon hearing the expletive-deletive but after pulling himself together he inquired, ‘What pea?’

‘It’s the only button you haven’t pressed yet, fool!’ the bee-jar voice sounded quite peeved.

‘My name’s not Fool, I’m...’

‘Stupid, I know.’ the bee-jar interceded.

Stupid laughed, ‘How did you know my name?’

‘Just. Press. The. Button.’ came the testy reply.

‘Okay.’ Stupid said. He looked across again at the panel and studied the buttons.

‘Which one?’ he asked.

There was a reel of expletive-deletives some of which Stupid had never heard before in between the sound of crashing, thumping, walloping and the scream of what sounded like a distressed salamander newt before an intelligible voice crackled, ‘You pressed the button with the triangles facing outwards?’

‘Yes.’

‘You pressed the button with the triangles facing inwards?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now press the other one.’

‘That strange looking one?’

‘Yes!’

‘But I don’t know what that means.’ Stupid innocently stated.

‘Don’t make me come down there!’ the bee-jar voice threatened.

Stupid was momentarily confused. He knew that he had somehow stepped up to hero level, but he was a beginner hero and had not the first inkling of how to use his new found powers in order to gain control of another’s mind and make them come to him.

So what was there to do? Think, think, think. He looked at the buttons. ‘Being a hero is all about pushing the right buttons’, he thought. ‘And I haven’t pushed that one yet.’

He pushed the button.

[1] may be excluded for extra young listeners / readers

[2] The wars of the BeeAyv as they came to be known were peculiar in regard to the rules of engagement. All weapons had to be made of or fashioned from root vegetables. It was allowed that fruit could be used as missile weapons, but that was the only concession to the main rule. Legend has it that this rule was insisted upon by King Bee!

If you want to see how the story continues, then click here.

Thanks for reading this far. That in itself is a compliment.

Cheers,

Ian