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Come ye close, and hear me well,
For I’ve a tale for you.
A brother’s wrath, a cursed spell,
And lonely princes two…
Leaning on his prototype compost shovel, Spork watched the minstrel sing. A couple children sat in the dirt in front of him, clapping along to the now-familiar ballad, joining in with pitchy voices at the chorus. The androgynous, vibrantly-dressed minstrel’s face lit up at their spectators’ enthusiasm.
What a fool, performing for a pair of urchins and a stingy old man in a nearly empty town square. The bard would surely find a better and more generous audience at the tavern down the street. Not that many folks in this backwater village had much coin to spare in the first place.
Spork sighed. Perhaps he was a fool as well, then.
The sound of cartwheels crunching on the dirt road reminded Spork to straighten up and look professional. When he saw the horse and driver, however, he resumed slouching. This wasn’t a potential customer… It was just Bob, coming to pick him up and nag him about his poor sales again.
Spork kept his attention on the minstrel as Bob drew the cart up beside him and hopped down from the bench. The short, curly-haired man patted the mare affectionately before joining Spork to listen to the last of the song.
Below, below, the mirror’s face
His amber eyes do gleam
I swear, I swear, I see him there
In ice, in glass, in stream.
Below, below, the silver glow
And yet too dark to see
I pray, I pray, I’m not too late.
My love, please wait for me.
The children jumped to their feet and shouted over each other with various folksong requests as the bard bowed theatrically.
“Did I miss any new verses?” Bob asked Spork.
“Same old story,” Spork grumbled as he loaded his unsold inventory of tined shovels into the back of the cart. “Prince Dib trapped in a mirror, magical mind control, sword fights…”
Bob smiled dreamily and crossed his arms. “True love, a wedding…”
Spork sneered at him. “Right. Sappy schlock, the whole thing. Well, it’s over, people. The spell was broken, the princes were married, let’s move on already.”
“Let’s hope people don’t move on too quickly,” Bob said, bending to gather the last of Spork’s wares. “All this celebrating has been good for business. The tavernkeeper wants to double her mead order. We’ll need more barrels. Maybe I can strike a deal with the cooper…”
Spork tuned him out and started to climb aboard the cart, only to be stopped by a yank on the back of his tunic. He spun around, indignant, to discover a small man with fierce eyes staring up at him, his palm extended expectantly.
“Can I help you?” Spork growled.
“They sing, and you pay,” the man stated. Behind him, the minstrel had launched into another tune, the smudge-faced kids dancing along to it.
“What? You were the ones who set up across from me and started in with that terrible braying,” Spork said. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“Don’t be an ass, Sir,” Bob said to Spork as he flipped a silver coin to the bard’s companion.
Spork sputtered, trying to come up with some choice words for his servant. No, not servant, not anymore. As loathe as Spork was to admit it, Bob was now his business partner and (arguably) equal, and had been for years. Ever since Miyuki…
Spork shook his head. Best not to think about that. He’d had the common sense to flee the palace at Queen Miyuki’s “suggestion,” and so here he was, keeping a low profile in the outskirts of Irk, and so he’d remain for the foreseeable future.
How miserable.
But hey, at least he’d lived.
Spork muttered a few curses under his breath and hauled himself onto the cart’s bench. “It’s criminal, you know,” he said as Bob joined him and took up the reins.
“What is?” Bob slapped the reins lightly on the old horse’s flanks, coaxing her forward.
“Targeting people like that, coercing them out of their hard-earned money,” Spork said. He cast a bitter glance over his shoulder at the merry minstrel and their apparent enforcer. “It’s a scam. They should be jailed. Perhaps we should notify the town guards of these predatory panhandlers.”
Bob rolled his eyes, still smiling. “Town guard. Singular. And even if that were an actual crime, our only guard is currently sloshed off of our mead over at the Green-Eyed Goat.”
Spork scoffed. “Unbelievable.”
Bob continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “And speaking of the Green-Eyed Goat, I overheard some chatter there about the trial.”
“Prince Zib’s?”
“Mhm!’
The cart slowly rounded the corner, leaving the square and bumping down the road out of town. Spork stared at Bob until he couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.
“Well? What of it? Speak!”
“They’ve imprisoned him,” Bob said.
Spork huffed. “Disappointing. If I were King Membrane, I’d have had the boy executed.”
Bob flinched at his harsh words. “His own son? You can’t mean that…”
“If such a betrayal had occurred within Irk’s royal family, you know damn well the punishment would have been death.” Spork leaned back on the bench, considering. “Although, familial sabotage is more or less tradition for us at this point. Attempted fratricide may as well be a rite of passage. You remember how Red used to treat Zim? It’s a wonder the runt survived to marrying age.”
“Prince Red…” Bob shuddered. “Yes, I remember.”
Spork watched Bob from the corner of his eye as they left behind the small, thatch-roofed houses of the village. The landscape transformed into a rolling countryside, green and blossoming, patched with wheatfields and orchards. On the side of the road, bees dipped between bursts of wildflowers, and Spork wondered if they belonged to his apiary. Well, his and Bob’s. It had been Bob’s idea to keep bees and to make mead from their honey. A good way to ensure income during the winter months, when they had little produce to sell in the market. Spork had to admit that it had been a stroke of genius on Bob’s part. Not that he’d ever admit that to him.
Sensing Spork’s gaze, Bob nervously cleared his throat. “Uh… Sir?”
“Why do you do that?” Spork asked. “Why do you call me ‘Sir’ when you’re no longer my servant? I’m not royalty anymore. I’m merely ‘Mr. Green,’ who sleeps on a hay mattress and apparently can’t sell his inventions to save his life.”
“No luck today, then?” Bob pursed his lips sympathetically.
“No buyers. Hardly anyone in the square. Probably all working their own farms, wishing they had a poly-tined compost shovel.”
“It’s a very good design, Sir,” said Bob, flicking the reins to urge the mare faster. “It’ll catch on.”
“You don’t have to lie to me. And there you go with that ‘Sir’ business again. Why do you do it?”
Bob’s forehead creased in thought. “Force of habit, I guess.”
“You don’t have to, you know.”
“I know. Do you want me to stop?”
Spork folded his arms and pretended to take interest in the scuffed nose of his boot. “No. Er, not necessarily.”
They trundled along in silence for a while as the cart wound its way up a low hill toward their shared farmhouse. For a ramshackle old building in sore need of a new roof, the house had an odd charm, silhouetted as it was against the cloudless blue sky, tall and proud and just a touch crooked.
“So… that old tavernkeeper,” Spork began, changing the subject. “She said our mead was selling well? It looks like she bought the last keg we brought to town.”
Bob nodded. “She says she can hardly keep it stocked. Oh! That reminds me. She threw in a little wine as a tip.”
An unexpected flare of pride warmed Spork’s chest. “Did she now?”
“It occurs to me we haven’t toasted the princes’ marriage yet,” Bob said with a sly grin, drawing a leather wineskin from his satchel.
“I suppose I do owe our kingdom that much,” Spork said. “Go on. You first, unless you’re secretly carrying around a pair of champagne flutes as well.”
Bob popped open the pouch with his thumb. “To Prince Zim and his groom. May our kingdoms be better for this bonding.” He took a swig and handed the wineskin to Spork.
Spork contemplated the skin for a moment, picking his words. “Yes, to the princes. May they never know such fear and pain again.”
He took a deep draught of the wine, aware of Bob’s eyes on him. The drink coated his mouth, tart and bright. He coughed as he corked the wineskin and thrust it back into Bob’s hands.
“Oh my stars,” he wheezed. “This is absolute shit.”
“It really is,” Bob said, wincing.
“I like our mead far better.”
Bob nodded and shoved the leather flask into his satchel. “Me too. I’m starting to understand why it’s been selling out.”
The old horse shook her mane and came to a stop near the leaning stable. Bob leapt down first, offering Spork a hand of guidance, which he took. Then he set to unharnessing the horse while Spork fetched the canvas cover for the cart.
“That was a kind toast, by the way,” Bob said softly as Spork unrolled the canvas over the wagon and its cargo.
Spork grunted. “The least I could do for the brats.”
“You wouldn’t really kill your own kin, would you?”
Spork smoothed the fabric down and let his hand rest there for a moment. He wondered when his hands had become so rough and callused, so gaunt and aged.
“No. I don’t think I could.”
“I couldn’t either, Sir.”
Spork waited for Bob to stable the horse so they could walk up the stone pathway together to their drafty, creaking home.
“You know, it’s a bit funny,” Spork said.
“What is?”
“Out of all the expensive wines the royal table had to offer,” Spork said, “I still think I’d pick our mead over them any day.”
Bob smiled warmly and led the way into the farmhouse. Perhaps no ballads would ever be sung of Spork, perhaps no one would ever appreciate his clever farming innovations, and perhaps no one would ever know what had become of him… But he did make a damn good mead, and had a damn good friend to share it with.