THE SOLDIER BOY IN BLUE (CONTINUED) or THE ROSY-CHEEKED MILKMAIDA Story by Peter RogersonPart two of a little story about blind faith and the way nonsense can be worshipped by people who have been beguiled by deceit.“Well, here goes,” muttered the Soldier boy in Blue, teeth gritted, concentration pouring from every pore on his body in saline streams. “Take this, you ridiculous balloon!” He was pointing his pop-gun with its cork on a piece of string at a gigantic silver balloon that was being worshipped far and wide by the wretched people of the Wilderlands, and called Crud in hushed sepulchral tones whenever they wanted it to grant a boon, which was just about all the time. Since its inception when it had created everything in the Universe (including the number 42) by issuing the Magic Word, it had put the medical profession well out of favour and most doctors were currently on the dole, living in gutters close enough to ants' nests for them to have the chance of grabbing something to eat when starvation pangs became unbearable. A dribble of sweat formed on his brow and made its way with a running drip onto the end of his nose as he concentrated on making sure that gun of his was pointing in exactly the right direction. He wanted no mistake here: he was going to take that balloon out and thus release the people of the Wilderlands from what looked like some wretched compulsive mass-disorder. He paused in order to let his heart stop racing, and the droplet of sweat grew so large that it pulled itself free from his nose as a consequence of the action of gravity, and fell to the ground. That was a very important droplet of sweat. It narrowly missed a shivering paediatrician lying almost dead on the ground and splashed with ferocious and very salty fervour right in the middle of an active and very annoyed nest of fire-ants, the sort capable of remarkably determined flight when agitated. And they were agitated now! A veritable squadron of them rose with a flurry into the air and formed an air-born spear, totally roused by a flood of anger, to attack the one thing they held responsible for all their woes, and that wasn't the paediatrician or the Soldier Boy in Blue or even his pop-gun. It was the gigantic silver balloon. At precisely the same moment, nerves tautened almost to breaking point, the brave boy pulled his trigger and, with a plip and a plop, the cork flew out of his fearsome weapon. And it flew, at nothing approaching escape velocity, straight for the Mighty Crud. At precisely the same moment when the cork bounced harmlessly from the silver magnificence of the balloon the fire-ants arrived, and they were considerably more determined. They had, within their fiery hearts, the discontent of ages. Ever since that balloon had arrived the human population of the Wilderlands had worshipped it, had entreated that it heal their sores and injuries and cure their diseases, and consequently put the medical profession out of business, and this had led to ants of all varieties being high on the doctors' dietary list. Their little jaws chewed and gnashed and poked and spat, and the balloon couldn't resist. It went “pop”. Not like the Soldier Boy in Blue's pop-gun but with an explosion that might have been in the megaton range had it not been. The people of the Wilderlands hadn't noted the ants and their attack on the Mighty (now raggedly useless) Crud, but had seen the pop-gun, noted the boy's trigger finger and been appalled as the cork had burst forth towards their mighty deity. To them the pop-gun and trigger finger were irreversibly connected. They hadn't seen the bead of sweat nor noted the proximity of a nest of flying ants. “We are done for!” they droned. “Who will cure the chicken-pox now?” they groaned. “My broken leg will fall off!” intoned one strident voice. “We'll all get gangrene!” the crowd all moaned. And they saw the Soldier Boy in Blue and noted his fearsome weapon and the way he still held it to one shoulder. “Get him!” they howled as one. And the entire population of the Wilderlands, every last one of them, turned on our hero and charged towards him. He, being brave and filled with almost unspeakable courage, decided the best kind of attack was defence, and ran as fast as his military legs could carry him, away from the Wilderlands. “That was easy!” croaked a voice at his elbow. “You're quite the young fellow-my-lad about town, aren't you, sonny?” He paused, the crowd already giving up their chase, the sun being out and it being a warm day and they too sickly to run far since the medical authorities had been, to a man and women, flouted by them. The voice was that of Granny Bones! The Soldier Boy in Blue pulled up and stared at her. “Why, Granny Bones, what are you doing here?” he gasped. She winked at him. Her eyes winked. Her ample bosoms winked. Her massive skirts winked. All of her winked. “I have come to make sure you're all right, and to give you a gift,” she smirked. “A g-g-g-gift?” he stammered. “Exactly. As a reward.” she beamed. “Now that your military duties are over you can have this!” And she ushered, from somewhere, a rosy-cheeked milkmaid with blushing lips and the purest peaches-and-cream face a soldier boy has ever seen, and if Granny Bones had ample winking bosoms, she had even more ample and more winking ones. “Off you go, you two, and make babies,” cackled Granny Bones. And that is exactly what they did.
© 2015 Peter Rogerson |
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Added on September 3, 2015 Last Updated on September 3, 2015 Tags: granny, milkmaid gingham, soldier boy, balloon, belief, fire-ants, fire, pop AuthorPeter RogersonMansfield, Nottinghamshire, United KingdomAboutI am 80 years old, but as a single dad with four children that I had sole responsibility for I found myself driving insanity away by writing. At first it was short stories (all lost now, unfortunately.. more..Writing
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