Another tale of everyday life under the Ghiz Dispensation
Secret training camp for Acadian agents of subversion and dissent, believed to be somewhere near Morrell PEI
by Donnie St Pierre, Labrador City NL, with additional reporting and photography by Stephen Pate at Cymbria
La Ministre Bien Aimée was in a rage. The screeching mothers of Rustico had played an intolerable trick, infiltrating a counterfeit Mme la Ministre into the official ground breaking of the new French school in Rustico to spread dissent and upset the Noble Lions of Cymbria.
The devilishly clever subterfuge depended entirely on the Boy Prince being completely unable to distinguish between one angry woman in a cute little red jacket and another.
And of course it worked. The Boy Prince was so busy preening that he never noticed the impostor, apparently an Acadian agente provocateuse, presumably trained in a special secret camp in the arts of sabotage and seduction – and turning the heads of foolish young men.
However, her carefully planted informer (disguised as a simple member of the lower orders present in the hope of a free sandwich and cup of tea and the chance of a kind word from his betters) told her worse was to follow. Fifth Floor agents acted to prevent the imposter from speaking, not because they saw through the imposter but because they had failed to. At all times a burly functionary from Transport and Public Works lowered menacingly just off stage, ready to prevent La Ministre Bien Aimée from speaking should she choose to intervene on behalf of the betrayed Noble Lions of Cymbria.
The Lions of course host the present unfortunate French school and reluctantly tolerate the subversive presence of active agents for the francophone conspiracy against right thinking Presbyterians and decent choral music, all for the paltry token rent of just $92,000 a year. They are also purveyors of local government to Rustico and providers of Pancake Breakfasts to La Ministre Bien Aimée, all from the historic site which has progressively hosted the mysteries of the Grail, Arthurian Glastonbury and the Templars, since the arrival of Joseph of Arimathea in the middle years of the first century AD.
Today the remains of Joseph’s first wattle and daub chapel are cherished in the caverns and treasury under the late 6th century Byzantine tiles of the kitchen of the present edifice. It is believed that a tunnel runs down to the waterside, where late at night the sounds of oarlocks can be heard groaning on the rising tide. No one speaks, except in whispers, of the doings after midnight, when the Assistant Claw Trimmer mutters incantations as the candles gutter, and leads his fellows in mysterious ceremonies deep in meaning and rich in significance for the future of Rustico.
A confusion of cute little red jackets
La Ministre Bien Aimée addresses the little people of Rustico
To add salt to the wound, when asked why Mme la Ministre was not speaking, the Boy Prince replied that was a question for her to answer and went on to gratuitously declare that the government’s policy was to support this totally unwanted and unneeded school, constructed within sight of the Lions Club, and just feet from where Joseph of Arimathea had dragged himself ashore and constructed the first Lions of Judah chapel to celebrate his landfall.
A shameless imposter fools the Boy Prince
This of course was not the first time an imposter had sought to emulate the radiant smile and condescending airs of La Ministre Bien Aimée. Previously a charwoman had to be dealt with in an extremely firm, indeed exemplary manner by her secret Culture Police from their headquarters by the oil products section of the Hunter River Irving. On another occasion, a virtual imposter had been created by photoshopping the body of a middle aged nurse onto the person of Mme la Ministre.
Intolerable!
She had lobbied for the official introduction of the crime of lèse majesté to ensure that such unwarranted liberties would not go unpunished. She had pointed out that her own Culture Police were at times handicapped by the necessity of paying lip service at least to laws which protect the body and person of scofflaws from summary and exemplary justice. She pointed to the tasteful twin gallows she had caused to be installed at both ends of the village of Hunter River and deprecated their lack of employment.
The more she reflected on the insults and calumnies, the deeper her rage became. She seized the 14th century Florentine blown glass flute housing the Cloud Forest Orchid flown in that morning from Ecuador and hurled it towards the trembling servitor who had just replayed John Jeffery’s sneering presentation of the day’s events on Compass on her 72 inch plasma screen television. The servitor collapsed in terror and the missile shattered against Gericault’s magnificent rendering of the Templars arriving in Rustico to build the Chapelle des Lions after their destruction and expulsion from France in 1307 by Philip IV. The liquid splashed and ran down the Gobelin tapestries and onto the late Abbasid silk carpet on which her press clippings were piled, savagely scored with red ink and huge exclamation marks.
That evening a sullen sun sank over the desolate towers of the ministerial mansion which rises out of the fetid swamps west of Hunter River. On the front lawn, beneath the wind blasted vine terraces where shrivelled grapes await a sour harvest, the ceremonial flame maple Adirondack chairs drip with dew and are encrusted with autumn cobwebs richly adorned with cluster flies. The occasional dull thud suggests a heavy poker hitting something soft. In the depths of the valley of the Hunter River below, the little people listen carefully and shiver. Large mean with coarse features and strange bulges in their pockets cruise up and down the road in old pick up trucks; wise men lock their doors while old women mumble their beads. And old dog whines beside the water wheel. From somewhere to the north the sounds of gaiety and fiddle music can be discerned. Is that the clatter of tap shoes?
Darkness descends. Somewhere an imposter carefully folds a cute little red jacket and smiles quietly.
Another day in District 18 wends its way to a troubled end.
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