Apocalypticon (32 page)

Now it was Brother Bickdraft’s turn to adulate. He drew his hands into his sleeves, just as Brother Toldus had done, and stood straight and tall before the fire. “Tonight I adulate the Great Centralizer with the gift of my tremendous broadsword, which I carved from the trunk of a mewling mulberry tree.” He turned and picked a small wooden sword from the ground behind him and held it aloft before the flames.

Ben leaned in toward Patrick. “I’m not a ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ expert,” he whispered, “but mulberries grow on bushes, right?”

“Yes. I am completely amazed by these lunatics’ ability to be scientifically inaccurate about absolutely everything,” Patrick said.

Brother Bickdraft took the small wooden sword in both hands and began to perform a choreographed sword-dance routine that could only be described as mesmerizing, in the way that a hairless, drunken yak stumbling in a hoof-sucking muddy swamp might be mesmerizing. He swung the sword in frantic circles over his head, kicking one knee up and hopping on the other foot. He drew the sword back in a lunge attack position and squatted low, bouncing and rocking on the balls of his feet. He fell to the ground, side-planking his body with one arm and holding the sword straight out from his hip into the sky. He rolled across the dirt, sword clutched in both hands and stretched above his head, like an armored wheel spoke, nearly spinning his way into the fire. He leapt from foot to foot, bobbing a wide circle around the ring of brothers, the sword twirling arrhythmically, accidentally slapping into a hooded pate every six or seven steps. He soft-skidded through a pile of dead leaves, swinging the sword from his hips like a clumsy codpiece. He flipped the sword into the air, end over end, clapped his hands three times, then yelped in pain as it smacked against his poorly timed fingers and fell to the ground. He picked it up and stabbed the air three times, let out a squeaky cry of what Patrick pegged as constipated irritation, then bowed to the fire and said, “In Its Name, I adulate.” The brethren nodded and murmured approvingly among themselves.

Brother Triedit stood and quieted the brothers with his outstretched palms. “The Champion of the first Feat is Brother Bickdraft.” Brother Bickdraft raised his sad little sword in triumph. The brethren nodded their support. “Brother Toldus, step forth and receive the Agony of Defeat.” Brother Toldus stood and humbly approached Brother Triedit at the head of the fire. Brother Triedit ceremoniously removed Brother Toldus’s hood. Then he reached into the folds of his own robes, retrieved what appeared to be a rotten peach, and crushed it down upon Brother Toldus’s head. Dark brown juice and bits of blackish pulp trickled down the friar’s face and neck. He bowed low and said, “Thank you, Holy Father.”

“
Doh-mus ar-lay fonto-roh
,” Brother Triedit said, nodding.

“
Ee-gree eff-no holly-mus
,” Brother Toldus replied. He returned to his seat, rotted fruit flesh drying into his beard.

“The second Feat of Adulation belongs to Brother Mayham and Brother Spyndthrift,” Brother Triedit announced. Brothers Mayham and Spyndthrift stood and bowed to the Holy Father. “
Doo-say port-oh mon-groo sat-ay
,” they said. It was decided that Brother Mayham would adulate first.

“Tonight I adulate the Great Centralizer with a wholly accurate moose call, which I perfected just this afternoon.” He spread his feet and squatted down a bit, then brought his fists to his mouth to form a hand trumpet. He took a deep breath, then, with all his might, blew a long, low groan into the tunnel of his fists. “
Mrroooooooooooooooooooggh-qwwufffffawhh
.” He turned and bowed to Brother Triedit. The monks all acknowledged the astonishing accuracy of his call, and some even applauded lightly, though the squealing moan sounded more to Patrick like a gagged hyena than a moose. He clapped politely anyway. Ben did not.

Brother Mayham’s moose call was so well received that Brother Spyndthrift was visibly nervous as he buried his hands into his sleeves and addressed the group. “Tonight I, uh, I adulate the Great Centralizer with a, ahm, with a poem that I wrote before lunch.” A few of the brothers audibly groaned. Waxing poetic was not a new hobby for poor Brother Spyndthrift. He ignored their premature criticism and began his recital:

“The woods of yore, yon sickly saps, the braided heartache bring,

A-shoomer, a-shonner, the dead leaves whisper in my ear.

Thy trees of habit grow stagnant in oily pools of befuddled wisdom.

‘Were they ever? Were they ever?’ sad Atlas asks.

Wisdom is slow, and viscous as sap,

It freezes and pleases nobody but none,

The owls lament the fruit of their lives.

Were they ever? Were they ever? I ask, were they ever?”

Brother Spyndthrift concluded to complete silence. He turned and bowed low to the Holy Father. He returned to his seat and waited nervously for Brother Triedit’s judgment.

“Boooooo!” Brother Haffstaff cried. “Booooooooooo!”

“Boooooooooo!” agreed the monks of the Post-Alignment Brotherhood. “Booooooooo!” Someone threw a rock across the fire. Brother Spyndthrift ducked with practiced ease. His poetry had fallen flat before.

Brother Triedit stood and calmed the dissenting clan. “The Champion of the second Feat is obviously Brother Mayham.” Whoops and cheers went up around the fire from all but Brother Spyndthrift, who looked not particularly surprised. He stood and met Brother Triedit’s rotten peach punishment with as much dignity as a tortured poet could muster. “And for the third and final Feat of Adulation, we call upon Brother Haffstaff and Brother Bicon.” The two monks rose, and the others leaned forward in tense anticipation. Brother Triedit acknowledged their excitement and nodded. He reached behind his seat and pulled up a hollow gourd. “The third Feat of Adulation is the Great Test, and tonight’s Test shall be...” He reached into the gourd, trudged around with his hand, and pulled a piece of bark from within. Something must have been written on it, for he glanced at the bark, nodded again, and said, “...a Feat of Rhyme!”

Wild cheers went up around the fire. Despite their collective distaste for Brother Spyndthrift’s particular brand of poetry, the Feat of Rhyme was a popular choice among the men. Brother Haffstaff shook out his hands while Brother Bicon rolled his head around on his neck. Brother Triedit gave them thirty seconds to loosen up, then called their Feat to order. The two men faced each other across the fire and shook hands over the flames.

“This looks pretty serious,” Patrick whispered to Brother Bickdraft.

“Oh, it is,” Brother Bickdraft assured him. “He who fails to adequately adulate in the Great Test is thoroughly punished.”

Brother Triedit cleared his throat. It was time to begin. “Yesterday, I packed my van.” He motioned to Brother Haffstaff to go first.

“It was driven by a rather merry man,” he said.

“He was the leader of the caravan,” Brother Bicon shot back.

“His name, I soon learned, was Dan,” said Brother Haffstaff.

“He had the most luxurious tan,” replied Brother Bicon.

“He received it in the Caribbean.” There were murmurs of protest regarding Brother Haffstaff’s pronunciation, but Brother Triedit dismissed them with a wave of his hand. He would allow it. And so they continued, back and forth, the rhymes flying faster and faster.

“The man in the van was my biggest fan,” said Brother Bicon. Patrick wondered if extra points were rewarded for multiple rhymes, or if he was just showing off.

“He, like I, was born in French Sudan.”

“Which reminded me at once of my master plan.”

“One I’d concocted playing Settlers of Catan.”

“It had to do with the nation of Iran.”

“And the wayward policies of the nation’s Taliban.”

“The man from Sudan with the tan in the van was content to sit and scan.”

“While I relayed my plan about Iran on the divan.” Both men were growing red in the face. Brother Bicon’s hands were clenched in fists of concentration, while Brother Haffstaff’s fingers stiffened from his palm like metal rods.

“But now, I saw, the plan was wan,” said Brother Bicon.

“So I thought I might as well move to Japan.”

“Or better yet, maybe Kazakhstan,” Brother Bicon huffed.

“I could live on a farm of the variety pecan,” Brother Haffstaff puffed.

“Or spend my days on a catamaran.”

“Against hard work, I’d levy a ban.” Brother Haffstaff was grasping at straws now, and everyone could see it. Brother Bicon may have been faltering physically, but his mind was still sharp.

“That trip might be over before it even began.”

“The natives, I think, I would be better than,” said Brother Haffstaff weakly.

“I wonder if you could watch reruns of
Roseanne
.”

“I could--I could watch them while making dinner in my pan,” Brother Haffstaff wheezed.

“At least you’d be far from the Ku Klux Klan.”

Brother Haffstaff’s face was chalky white, and damp with sweat. “And I could buy a house near an alluvial fan,” he gasped.

“Fault!” cried Brother Triedit. “Repeated use of the word ‘fan.’ The title of Great Adulator falls to Brother Bicon.” The brothers gave him a rousing applause. “Well done, brother! The Great Centralizer is fittingly adulated, and yea, art thou bright in his eyes,
oo-fray dic-tus homy-noo
.” Brother Bicon bowed low to the Holy Father and responded in the order’s gibberish. Brother Triedit blessed him with the Sign of the Wobbly Circle, then clapped three times. “Brother Mayham, bring forth the Book of Failure and Disgrace.” Brother Mayham shimmied up the trunk of a great oak tree and returned with a heavy, leatherbound book the size of a tombstone. He lowered himself to one knee and presented it humbly to the Holy Father. Brother Triedit took the tome and flipped it open to what seemed to be a random page. “As Fortimus did shame his family with the forfeiture of his larger-than-average genitalia in exchange for a piddling sum, so too are we shamed by the catastrophic failure achieved thence by one of our own cloth.” He closed the book with a heavy
thud
and beckoned Brother Haffstaff forward. “Step to, Pillar of Embarrassment, and receive the Divine Shaming.” Brother Haffstaff fell to his knees before the Holy Father. Brother Triedit cursed him with a Reverse Wobbly Circle, then lifted the book high in the air and brought it crashing down on Brother Haffstaff’s shoulder. The Pillar of Embarrassment was knocked to the dirt.

“
Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom
,” he said.

Brother Triedit turned to the other members of the Order. “Come, brothers, and form the Line of Severe and Direct Punishment.” The monks stood and shuffled toward the prostrate failure. Patrick and Ben followed, casting each other questioning glances. They squeezed themselves into the line that formed behind Brother Spyndthrift. Brother Triedit handed Spyndthrift the book. He hauled off and whacked Brother Haffstaff in the leg.

“
Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom
,” said Brother Haffstaff.

“Is there anyone left in the world who’s not roundly insane?” Ben whispered to Patrick. Brother Bickdraft overheard him and intervened.

“Only one of our number receives the Divine Shaming each night during adulation,” he explained quietly. “It’s practically an honor.”

Patrick watched doubtfully as the other brothers took their turns battering the inadequate rhymer with the heavy book.

Wham
!

“
Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom
.”

Whack
!

“
Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom
.”

Whomp
!

“
Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom
.”

Whuff
!

“
Tho-nus don-tus farky-nom
.”

…And so on. Soon it was Ben’s turn to bludgeon the poor bastard. Brother Toldus handed him the book. Ben almost fell under its surprising weight. He hefted the thing and cast an uneasy look at Brother Triedit. The Holy Father nodded, urging him forward with his hands. Then Ben looked down at Brother Haffstaff, splayed out awkwardly in the leaves and brush. He, too, nodded up at Ben, and even gave him a thumbs up. Ben shrugged. Then he hauled off and whacked Brother Haffstaff in the head.

“Well done!” Brother Triedit exclaimed. “You Shame as well as any practiced member of our order.” The other brothers bobbed their heads in agreement. Ben beamed.

He handed the Book of Failure and Disgrace to Patrick, who nearly dropped it. The damn thing was heavy, and he only had one good hand. He looked down on poor Brother Haffstaff, who gave him an encouraging smile. Patrick bent down and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. Then he handed the book back to Brother Triedit.

The Holy Father frowned. “Not the strongest Shaming I’ve seen,” he said bluntly.

Patrick shrugged. “I’m not really a shaming kind of guy.”

“The road to True Centralization is paved with tiles of Great Shame,” Brother Triedit pointed out.

Soon, it was roundly considered late enough to call it a proverbial night. The brothers stood and bid good evening to their guests before ambling up the trees. Ben stood and stretched. “You turning in?” he asked.

Patrick shook his head. “I think I’ll keep the fire company a little while longer. You know how lonely fire gets.”

“It’s the fourth loneliest of all the elements.” They high-fived goodnight, and Brother Toldus led Ben off to the guest tree house. Aside from Patrick, only Brother Triedit remained.

“Thank you again for putting us up. Heh, heh.” He pointed at the trees. “Get it? Up? That wasn’t even on purpose.”