A FAIRY CORONATION

Well, what else was I going to write with Charles being crowned in the background as I sit here typing?

If you go into Brumpton woods and veer off towards Swanspottle, a quaint little village near the main town and home for a very famous witch (who doesn’t enter this story), and if you go blindly, not aware of where anything might be until you’re very lost indeed, you could easily find yourself in the unsignposted and forgotten enclave known to anyone brave enough to call himself local as Ducksbill.

And on one particular day in May there was excitement in Ducksbill.

That excitement, though, was not of a human variety because no humans lived in that enclave and if they ever showed any signs of settling anywhere near, the locals scare them off, because those locals are all that remains of an ancient fairy population, one that has kept itself ro itself ever since it evolved from the mud of the area countless generations before, and they knew more than a bit of magic.

The fairy population was self-sufficient in every possible way and human beings had absolutely nothing they wanted, except msybe for a bottle or two of ginger wine.

The fairy community, though, had evolved as a monarchy with an inherited monarch very much in charge. The job passed to father or mother so son or daughter according to seniority. There was no nonsense such as an insistence that the crown (yes, the fairies did have a crown for their monarch, a rather fancy affair of living fronds and a few jewel-like ladybirds, chosen for the glittering prominence of their spots, and all, of course, were total volunteers. There was no such thing as forced labour in Ducksbill, which is the main reason why historically they had established laws and rules that prohibited any connection with human beings, who they saw as living in societies held together by slavery of one sort or another. Even the fairy monarch had to work on equal terms with the compost turner, the acorn poker and the blackberry juicer, the three main occupations in what we might call fairyland if we want to offend them, in Ducksbill.

That monarch, (king or queen according to an ancient custom of promoting the eldest offspring of the ruling monarch on his or her death) ruled Ducksbill according rigidly laid down customs, and when one died there was a period of mourning followed by the coronation of his or her successor And at the very moment of time when the following account takes place, the ruling queen had died. After a long and happy reign during which she had actually nothing at all to do she had given up the ghost, and there had to be s coronation.

But there was a problem.

The eldest offspring of the late queen was in trouble. And not just mildly in trouble but in a heck of a lot of trouble, and the fairy community had retained an option from the older days of capital punishment on the rare event of anyone doing anything remotely punishable. The last fairy to be executed was two centuries earlier when the king of the fairies had formed a very improper relationship to a human being that had culminated in the birth of a hybrid creature of the least pure of all bloods, something that could never be allowed. So the courts had been consulted and that king sentenced to death whilst his illegitimate offspring was sent in exile to live miserably amongst human beings in Swanspottle.

That was in the past and had been solved by the judicious use of a guillotine separating the king’s head from the rest of him. But that was now little more than an ancient tale told to young fairies as a warning against being stupid, and the lesson was learned well because there was very little wrong amongst any of the fairies of Ducksbill that a stern ticking-off wouldn’t solve.

Until, that is, a few months ago when the son of the now dead queen was caught in the act of committing the most outrageous of crimes, that of exposing himself to a human being, and on a Sunday at that. But according to the laws of the forest he was arrested and taken before a judge and the ultimate sentence was passed. Having let a human female catch a glimpse of what was called his Weeny and even waving it about so that female could hardly miss seeing it, he was condemned to death. By guillotine (if it still worked) or rusted penknife (if it didn’t).

Then it was noted (by a nosy sparrow who happened to have a nest in the courthouse tree) that the condemned beast of a fairy was the only heir to the Duckbill throne, and the death sentence was swiftly commuted to life servitude in the enclave’s cemetery.

That’s the history of events and now for the present.

A rather secret and important dell was laid out for a magnificent ceremony and every important fairy was asked to attend the coronation ceremony, and as all fairies shared the same importance in the wonders of fairy society, the only ones who didn’t get an invitatioin were those imprisoned because they’d done something really, really naughty, and as it so happened the only prisoner at the time (or even in that decade) was he who should be crowned as king at the festive coronation.

But by the laws it had to happen.

And at the eleventh hour of the relevant day he was prepared for his life’s work. But he had manacles about his wrists, for he was a condemned prisoner and he was led to the ceremony by his very talkative jailer fairy.

“I’m sorry, sir, that you are being treated as if you’d done something terribly wrong when all you did is flash your weeny... isn’t it something we all do when we’ve been on the strong honey liquor in our own homes?”

“I guess so,” he growled, “but I was sober and she was pretty consiering she was a human being) he replied huskily.

“Then, mate, the worst is yet to come,” grunted the jaliler, quite enjoying his role, “you’re tied down by iron bands at the moment, but much stronger are the ceremonial promises you’ll have foisted on you before this day’s out! You’ll look back on these handcuffs and wearing them as a walk in the park!”

“Oh dear,” sighed he who was to become king of the fairies, “oh very dear me…

© Peter Rogerson 06.05.23

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Reviews

[AYVID N]

We think the royals are lucky people but often that's not the case. They have their share of burdens, rules and responsibilities. I feel sorry for the prince for he's getting more punishment than he deserves. The Jailor is right. I enjoyed this story!

[Peter Rogerson]

written to the background of the British coronation on the television i find that there's something undemocratic about leadership as a privilege of birth

[AYVID N]

Indeed, I feel so too. A leader should be tried and tested, burnished as gold by fire and of proven potential. Leadership is for the fittest and finest and should not be a birthright.