SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023)

Sit.27: The Mothers of Us

EVER AFTER

Should one survive our union
and fumble as they fall
let all of us support them
or anyone they call

let them repeat our flukes, then
let harm be done to them
so they can learn solutions
and heal without revenge

and if no grace will grace us
the union bears no fruit
let stand both trees regardless
let drink the thirsty roots.

* * *

My play worked too well... it was supposed to reverse the town's fortune. But it reversed The Heathen's along with it, making him a moderate drunk (as opposed to an absolute), and fed him new wares to sell – our 'soda drink' was about to be his 'original recipe leisure tonic'. He was even bragging about being on a 'cleanse', though I never did see him drink any soap. All he had to do was send a few letters on the next boat, which was due in three days. Sure, the tourists were buying, and the actors were acting again of their own volition... but even with the Cat O' Sparks on top once more, The Heathen was still perched on his stupid throne, looking down at everyone. We owned the stage, but he owned the town. That's why, when he decided to raise taxes, everyone was shocked and confused. Was our patronage and surrender not enough? We all, young and old, gave at church, despite many of us not even attending the service – it was simply the way we gave back to town. And the bucket he'd held, That Pathetic Leech, brought from door to door in support of only himself; we'd already filled it, each month. Would the tourists have kept coming, sure, but that dispersal of mirth and coin was once or twice a month as well, and soon to end for the year until summer again. He wanted more coin, but our paltry town didn't even have a bank. When The Fearful drained our coffers, cushions, and socks, we had naught but lint and buttons to pay to ourselves, nor to scrape together and buy food with. And, he was taxing all sales at festivals, too, coming around with that damned bucket to each stall at the end of the day. He was even talking about instating an admission fee, for each guest – as if thirty-or-so vacationeers had the time to stand in line at the dock, before the boat left again with half of 'em still on deck. Aye, The Poultron was asking for more, and more, and more and more... the next time he came round, he should well expect to see his bucket full of tears. His people were starving, living by kindness alone... which our 'Lordship' then made illegal.
"All sharing is prohibited without sale, it encourages vagrancy," he declared loudly to all below.
But the only promotion of homelessness I saw was his own policy, which left little else for us as a career choice. Where was he keeping all our coin? How much did he expect our economy to FUNCTION if the liquidity couldn't flow, if it sat stagnant in his well at home? What was he even going to SPEND it for? All the shops in town sold was Cat O' Sparks merch- oh, The Craven! The Weakling, the Caitiff, he was going to RUN!! The Pusillanimous Dastard, La Scaramuccia, The Feckless Wyrm, he was going to take all our hard-earned money and WELCH! And for my own smacked brow, I'd given him just the excuse: he was no longer POPULAR in town! I'd dethroned his self-insertion for my own portrait, the cat for the rooster. He knew it, too, he'd been FEEDING into it! GIVING us reasons to hate him, TRICKING us into wanting him let gone before he learned his lesson, BEGGING US to kick him out and FREE him from discipline! This was his plan all along, this was his PLOY! Being liked was his true desire, but being HATED was his GAME! If I had to guess, I'd even say it was his favourite game of all. No, The Spineless would remain in Catalite, he'd LEARN his lessons, TAKE his knuckles RULED, and STAY here until WE'VE bled him back out for all our own blood, sweat, and tears! And THEN, and ONLY THEN, will I send his reparched carcass to its muddy grave, so his soil can one day rich our crops and feed our hungry people. I took a moment to collect myself – I was starting to sound like my Mentor, giving one of his angry sermons. I took stock of the situation. With as much steam as I had, there was nothing to be done. He was stronger than ever, recovering partially from his life-long binge, and in great spirits for once. The soda had rejuvenated him, sparked in him a child-like glee. Last I saw him, he was SINGING, a bold pirate's tune about brazen assault. He had no remorse, and I had no time left. I had to do something to free us from his grasp before he dropped our town to shatter on the rocks, and FAST.