Feather in His Cap Read online

Feather in His Cap

  By Keith Gapinski

  Copyright 2014 by Keith Gapinski

  Discover other titles by Keith Gapinski:

  Indeterminate State

  The Keening

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  Feather in His Cap

  by Keith Gapinski

  Myram Scribewell tumbled out of the doors of the Inn of the Heaving Heathen, followed closely by a floppy white hat with a largish red feather.

  He rolled over in the dark street and spat out a mouthful of mud that tasted far too much like the Heathen’s beer for his liking. He wasn’t actually sure why he’d been thrown out of the bar this time, but, since this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, he didn’t pause to wonder too much about it.

  The giant shape of Blugo, a mountain troll, crashed out through the swinging doors of the inn with a roar. Blugo was seven feet of bad attitude wrapped in tautly wound muscle, covered in leather and chains, and topped with a misshapen head that was a stew of eyes, scars, and vicious-looking incisors. Blugo took two huge steps over to Myram and yanked him to his feet.

  “Stay away from Prilla!” The troll’s breath basted Myram’s face in a mixture of spicy rum and boiled onions. Myram gulped back fear and the contents of his stomach, and smiled what he hoped was an innocent, reassuring smile.

  “Hey, look, Prilla and I were just chatting.”

  Blugo’s giant hand shot out and clamped around his neck. “Chatting, Blugo’s arse!” With a grunt, Blugo squeezed and Myram felt his head swell like a balloon as his eyes went slightly blurry.

  Prilla’s face, all perky blond ringlets and concerned blue eyes, popped up between them. “Is Blugo hurting you?”

  “Help!” Myram gasped, and nodded.

  She spun and waved a tiny finger up at the the troll. “Let him go, Blugo! He’s an artiste!”

  “No care where he from,” Blugo said. “He mess with Blugo girl!”

  Prilla gasped and shoved at the big troll, which was like an ant trying to move an oak. “I’m not your girl!”

  Blugo’s fist tightened and the bones in Myram’s neck ground together.

  “Oh, so now you pretty boy girl?” Blugo chuffed. “He sing stupid, slow song and you make goo-goo eyes all over him?”

  Blugo gave his impression of Prilla’s goo-goo eyes, which looked rather like the last moments of a carp on land.

  “I was not making goo-goo eyes, I was showing him my talents,” Prilla said.

  “That what you call it?” Blugo sneered.

  “My singing and dancing talents, goat-breath! Myram’s a famous playwright. He’s got a show in the big city on White Lamp Way.”

  Myram tried to burble something around the crushed mass that was his throat.

  Blugo curled his lip and growled.

  “Only got one good eye, but I seen you …,” the troll blushed a thick pink as he said the next word, “…cannoodling!”

  Prilla howled and slapped Blugo. Stunned, the troll loosened his grip just enough for Myram to catch a breath.

  “About the show…” Myram gasped, trying to remember their conversation. There had been quite a few orders for wine, and, somewhere between, the story of his musical extravaganza. Quite possibly, in the foggy later on, she had sung some sort of bawdy song to him while dancing rather sensuously. Some lyrics about extremely surprising uses for a unicorn horn floated just out of reach.

  Prilla spun, a tiny whirlwind of jasmine perfume, and commanded Myram. “Tell him about us!”

  “About Prilla and I…,” he stammered.

  Blugo glared at him. “You was very close.”

  “I could barely hear her over the noise in there,” Myram pointed out.

  Blugo looked from Prilla to Myram, trying to read the truth, which was difficult for him since the relationship between most trolls and any form of literacy tended to end at verifying the “XXX” on the jug they were about to inhale.

  “Aw!” The troll dropped Myram, who stumbled backwards and rubbed at his sore neck.

  Blugo waved a thick, sausage-like finger down at Prilla and lectured. “You Blugo girl. No need silly songbird.”

  “I told you, Blugo, I aten’t your girl! You’re an ugly stump for brains.”

  The couple started squabbling like two chickens fighting. Myram decided to take the opportunity to exit, stage right.

  But where was his hat?

  He couldn’t leave without it. A white floppy hat with a ridiculously large red feather, it represented his rise from itinerant singer and storyteller to a true master of the arts. Served him right to lose the hat, he lamented. Just his luck, of late.

  He paused, tracing his trajectory out of the inn through the air out to the dent he made in the muddy street. There! He spotted his hat sitting in a puddle, shimmering in the moonlight like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. As he walked towards it he was nearly run down by a coach that roared down the street and crashed to a stop in front of him.

  “Oh, Myram!” Prilla gasped, rushed up, and grabbed him. “Are you okay? You almost got run over! Why would you do that?”

  “I was just trying to retrieve my hat. I thought I’d leave you and your… friend … to patch things up.”

  “But sweetie,” she gazed up into his eyes and unleashed the dreaded flutter of eyelashes. “I thought you were taking me with you?”

  Myram heard the low rumble that could only be Mount Blugo threatening to erupt.

  “I said that, did I?”

  “What this?” Blugo loomed over the pair. “About Prilla go with you?”

  Prilla elbowed the troll. “Myram says I could be a big singing star.”

  “Big singer?” Blugo snickered. “Prilla sing like goat while I eating it.”

  Prilla’s eyes narrowed as she turned to face Blugo. “Myram’s going to take me to the city and put me in his musical theater, and I’ll be a big star and drink champagne ‘stead of serving foul beer to worm-smelling, under-bridge dwellers like you!”

  “Um, about that,” Myram looked back and forth between Prilla and the steaming Blugo. “I can’t.”

  “What?” Prilla scowled up at him. She looked back at Blugo, and then, with sudden understanding, dismissed the troll with a wave. “Look, if you’re worried about that stump, I only flirt with him to keep the other blokes behaving.”

  Blugo growled.

  “It’s not that, Prilla, it’s … um, my show is currently dark.”

  Prilla’s big blue eyes got slowly wider.

  “And it’s going to be a while because there were storms and …”

  Myram thought fast — how to build the drama, the pathos, the believability?

  “… the roof caved in and …there was a fire…and that stagehand strike…”

  Prilla tilted her head, tiny sparkles of tears appearing at the edges of her eyes. Myram’s mind went blank and his mouth filled up with the truth.

  “Look, Prilla, I don’t have a show anymore. I’m just a wandering minstrel.”

  Tears rolled softly down her cheeks. Myram’s heart shrank; he wasn’t sure what was worse, the threat of Blugo’s beating or Prilla’s crying.

  Myram gave her a smile and, just to punctuate it, a pat on the shoulder.

  “Hey, kid—”

  “You rotten worm!” Prilla snarled. “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I’d known that.”

  “Kiss?!” Blugo howled.

  Myram, forewarned by the hurricane blast of rummy breath, managed to
duck under the troll’s oak tree of an arm as it crashed over him. He was not, however, prepared for Prilla’s rising knee of fury. He crumpled in a cacophony of ringing pain and chirping birds.

  Doubled over, he watched Prilla march back up into the tavern, while before him, Blugo cocked his huge arm like a ballista and smiled a wicked smile.

  “Excuse me,” a melodic voice asked, “But is this your hat?”

  A slender white arm interposed itself between Myram and Blugo, holding out Myram’s slightly crumpled hat.

  “Only the coach driver almost stepped on it,” the voice added.

  Myram’s eyes traveled from the hat, up the smooth white skin of the slender, outstretched arm, tripped gently off a crimson sleeve, and tumbled into the most opalescent eyes he had ever seen. The lady who had spoken was a willowy brunette. Her red robes floated around her like a dusky cloud in the soft moonlight. Long black hair flowed around a face cast of pure porcelain.

  She tilted her head slightly and smiled down at him, a watercolor blush of rose blooming on her cheeks. Myram felt a sudden rush of vigor that dulled his pain, cleared his head, and drew him up straight.

  “My lady, you’ve finally arrived!” He bowed, took the proffered hat and, with a bit of sleight of hand, drew her dove-like hand in for a soft peck and an exquisite sniff of fresh talcum. “Myram Scribewell, at your service. I have been expecting you.”

  “How charming,” she replied with a bewildered smile. “Expecting me?”

  “Ye-es,” Myram stretched the word out as he locked eyes with her and nodded very, very slowly, willing her to agree with him. “I am your guide.”

  Her eyes narrowed in confusion. “My guide?”

  “Yes, your guide to the