In
a maelstrom of blankets and dust, curses and glares,
the
Cave-Dweller is decidedly on the path of war.
In
great insanity he is searching around his gloomy cave for
his
left-hand glove. He claims that he has worn it only a day ago.
The
Anarchist whispers in the ear of the Prehistoric Postal Agent
“What
is all this fuss about a threadbare glove? Why don’t you go to
the
Other Lands and get him a new pair?”
The
Prehistoric Postal Agent stunned at the impertinence of this request
glowers
at the Anarchist and whispers fiercely back into his ear
“It
is against the rules of our industry to supply our services to
the
selfish needs of a temperamental oaf.”
The
Anarchist feigns a stutter “B..b..b..but I thought th..th..th..that
your
agenc..c..c..c..cy is all ab...b..b..bout fulf..f..f..filling all sorts
of
s..s..s..selfish needs.”
The
Cave-Dweller long aware of this whispering grabs a stone,
throws it in a blind passion into the corner of
the meddlesome whisperers and bellows “How
dare you miscreants
scheme right under my nose?!”
The
Anarchist leaps up and in a tone of unsubtle mirth proclaims
“The
Prehistoric Postal Agent has kindly offered to procure a new pair of
gloves for you.”
“I
have said no such...” but before the Prehistoric Postal Agent can
finish his
sentence the
Cave-Dweller runs to embrace him.
“Your
services to save my dire situation will not
go unrewarded” the Cave-Dweller chimes
in
tones never heard from his mouth before.
From
the shadow of the overhang the Wretch
shakes his head and murmurs “What
is this Cross Roads coming to?
A Prehistoric Postal Agent turning into a
charity and
a Cave-Dweller feeling and showing immense sense of gratitude?”
For
all this while the Carillon stunned into silence by all this ruckus
demurely asks “Should I be ringing in this evolutionary news for
times to come?”
The
Prehistoric Postal Agent hisses through his clenched teeth “You don’t dare.”
The
Anarchist so pleased with the turn of events clamours with
triumphant
waving of the arms “Please do, Madame Carillon.
Your
ringing will in truth pronounce the devolution of life at
the Cross Roads and
everyone needs to take note of it.”
As
the confusion of the day settles in everyone’s minds
the
Loner comes traipsing sleepily from the cairn of
stones to investigate what
all the excitement in
the cave was about. In his casual stride he
trips over something.
It is a besmirched left-hand glove.
Scarcely
recognising what it is, he unstitches the thing
and
winds up the tattered threads into a tight little ball
and
mutters to himself “I will gift this to our
esteemed
Prehistoric Postal Agent to use as packing string.
He
will be most grateful.”
The links to the previous six Cross Roads poems >