4. CANVASSING

The enemy goes canvassing

OWONGO AND A PRINCE

4. CANVASSING

Prince Dickory was in a state. Having arrived back at his somewhat luxurious cave (complete with a WC of sorts) he was afraid that word might spread that he had been thwarted by the wretched simpleton Owongo, or Wongo as he called him. It would never do if the masses (and they did number hundreds even back then, although nobody had the time or numeracy to go round and count heads) became attached to the notion that he himself was far from impervious to the power of others, and by others he mostly meant Owongo.

He growled to himself and ate all of one of the large apples he’d taken from the tree that had so upset, tucked the core in a pouch which he hung from his waist as a symbol of his own greatness, and did that before that repast gave him what he called the collywobbles, a condition that he hated more than he hated poverty, which he knew precious little about anyway. He would, he decided, have to neutralise any advantage the wretched Owongo might gain from their sad meeting over a fawn. Had he known that Owongo had finally wrested the very life from that fawn he might have been even more angry, but in this instance a certain amount of ignorance might be looked on, in future parlance, as bliss.

He concluded that the best he could do was fix the biggest smile in his repertoire of false smiles onto his face, make sure it didn’t slip, and go amongst the thronging paupers, being kindly and even, if the opportunity presented itself in a way that didn’t impoverish him, generous.

So he set out.

Mostly. The stream was considered a place where a man or even woman might bump into friends, maybe fishing, maybe washing himself or even scrubbing a leather apron that had got over-smelly. So, unusual for him, he made his way to some of the favourite spots on the bank of the stream (which was more like a small river than an actual steam, having swollen because this being what the folk around liked to call the wet season, though they had little notion of seasons, and anyway it was never very wet.)

He saw a small group of men with their women crouched by the flowing and bubbling waters, and they appeared to be dousing old skins in the water, which he thought was a most unpleasant occupation and best not done, a decision which probably explains why one of his nicknames, out of his hearing of course, was Stinky (or its prehistoric equivalent).

“Well, friends,” he boomed, though the language wasn’t the sort of language in which either the words well or friends might be articulated, but those were different times and language was in its infancy, and he continued “what is this game you are playing?”

Gumgummy decided to be the spokesman of the group and because they hated Prince Dickory, the rest of the people let him.

“We are de-lousing,” he said.

“What a splendid pastime!” grinned Prince Dickory, “I have never engaged in it, but hey, ho, it is probably fun!” Such a long sentence was never spoken in those days, but the particularly brief grunts he came out with are best translated in the way that I have.

“Probably why you’re Stinky!” muttered one of the others, scowling at him. He both heard and understood, but that smile had to be unwavering in its friendliness. He had a lesson to teach and that lesson was that he was an all round good egg, and he would care for those less fortunate than himself, just you see if he wouldn't.

“We hate doing it, but delousing is one of those things a man must do if he is going to call himself a man,” replied Gumgummy pointedly, relishing the disguised insult.

“Does the wretched clown ‘Wongo ever come this way? I suppose not. I suppose you’re slaving for him, swirling the water until you’ve deloused?” he grinned.

“Owongo is a good man and he comes here often,” replied Gumgummy, “as does his beautiful bride, the heavenly Mirumda with her big melons,” he added.

It can be assumed at this point that the word melons was not used, but a prehistoric euphemism for bosoms was instead.

“Wongo is my very best friend,” lied Prince Dickory, “and I tell you what, friends: I have gifts for you all! Yes, even for the ladies! I will give you each a tree that will grow the most beautiful huge apples! That’s me and the kind of things I do for those I like! So here you are!” And from a small pouch made of lousy leather he withdrew a handful of apple pips, and handed them out, one to every man and woman at the stream.

“All you have to do is insert them in soft ground and wait,” he said, “in the fulness of time they will each become as apple tree, and you will have free fruit forever!”

Then he sauntered off, that smile still firmly in place, until he reached a second group, where he repeated the exercise, never letting that affectionate smile dissolve away even though his jaw was starting to ache and his genitalia told him it was surely time for him to visit Roddy, a young man of his acquaintance, who he rather enjoyed visiting.

Roddy appeared to be delighted to see him, but in truth he wasn’t. In fact, if anyone of the cave-folk living on that valley floor had cause to dislike Prince Caspian it was Roddy, as in his opinion the Prince must surely be as good as blind, because he gave every impression that he saw him, Roddy, as if he was a woman, and Roddy really hated it.

Prince Dickory, though, was insensitive to the young man’s moods, and just grinned amiably. Not in the way he had with the fixed smile, but a genuine grin that just might have contained an element of genuine affection. Or might not.

Less than an hour later he left to return to his own cave, his heart singing with crude melodies of some kind of affection whilst Roddy scowled and declared to the cave walls that even if he lived to be really very old, even forty, he would never vote in any election for the man who called himself Prince Dickory.

© Peter Rogerson 03.11.23