Weekend Write-In Story Collection

The Fields of Aalsmeer

In 500 words, imagine what happens when a character breaks out into song at a bad time. Written for the Weekend Write-In prompt themed "Falsetto". 28 - 30 August 2015

The story is set at the height of the Dutch tulip mania in the 1630s when prized bulbs like the Viceroy were priced at ten times an annual wage.

The Bulbnappers

"Are you sure you remember where they are?"

"Of course I do, Timotheus. The field layout is imprinted in my mind."

"But in the dark? In this thick fog? I can't even see my feet, how can you tell where we are?

"I'm counting the steps. We should be almost... Damn! You've made me lose count. We'll have to start over."

Wilhelmina turned and slowly felt her way back across the field, sensing the line between the small slopes of mounded earth. Her big, gangly husband quietly followed.

Back at the road, she said: "If you can be silent like that as we head out again, we'll easily find them. This time, you count the steps also. It's two hundred thirty to the start of the Viceroys."

They had gone only a few steps when she stopped. "Quietly! Count to yourself."

They went back to the road and stomped to unload the mud clods. "Now quietly," she said, turning to start along the row again.

"Here we are, two hundred thirty. Here's where they start."

"I'm at a hundred seventy-six. We're not even close to them yet."

"You should have taken smaller steps. Steps the size I take, not your long lopes. Go back and do it again with smaller steps."

Eight minutes later, he returned. "Two hundred eighty-two," he said as he knocked clay clods from his clogs. "We're too far. Two hundred thirty was back there."

"Can't you do anything right?"

"Go back and count two hundred thirty to here, so we're sure this is the place."

In another eight minutes, he was back. "The last twenty steps were very short, but I have two hundred thirty now."

"It's about time you got it right. That confirms this is the place. You start digging, I'll begin loading them into our bags."

"I have nothing to dig with."

"Hands, Dimwit, that's why you have them. Use your hands. Give me your bag."

He patted his shoulder, searching for the strap. "I must have forgotten it in the waggon."

"You stupid oaf, don't you ever think. I don't know how I put up with you. Go back and get it. Get my bag while you're there."

He knew this was another of those times when it was best to remain silent, as he turned and slowly headed back.

Wilhelmina waited impatiently, muttering: "What a sad excuse for a husband. His friends call him Tiny Tim; they must know the size of his brain, the size of his third thumb."

"About time," she said as she grabbed the bags from him. "Have you no concern for me? It's cold standing here in this wet fog doing nothing. Now start digging."

He handed her the bulbs and she carefully placed them in the bags as she gloated. "These are now priced above three thousand guilders each. I'm rich."

As they started back, Tiny Tim began singing in an off-key falsetto voice: Tiptoe through the tulips...

A deep voice behind them shouted: "Halt!"