Chapter Text
The sun sat low in the western sky. On the Road of Yellow Brick, a great gray bulk moved at a tremendous pace across the flowering plains, towards the gates of the Emerald City. “Kabumpo! Slow down! You’re rattling all my bones!” yelled Prince Pompadore, who sat upon the enormous elephant. “Can’t afford to,” answered Kabumpo, “we’ve got to make it before the gates close for the evening! There’s not another inn between here and the City, and the Elegant Elephant shall not sleep on the ground like a common creature!”
Prince Pompadore thought about telling Kabumpo to turn around and go back to the inn they had passed an hour ago. It wasn’t that far back, was it? Sure, it wasn’t up to Kabumpo’s standards, but the Festival of Laughter didn’t begin until tomorrow evening. They could afford to wait, couldn’t they? But he didn’t want to fight with the stubborn pachyderm and resigned himself to this breakneck pace.
Kabumpo had other reasons though, which he did not tell to the Royal Highness of Pumperdink. It seemed to him that three - perhaps four - men had set to following them about two hours after they had left the Kicking Kalidah Inn at noon. The Elegant Elephant didn’t want Prince Pompadore to be set upon by robbers or kidnappers during the night. “As well,” Kabumpo snorted to himself, “I don’t trust the owner of the last inn: he’s a green Winkie, not yellow. And his inn’s in Gillikin!”
Kabumpo had deemed it safer to outrun the men and get to the Emerald City. The pair had not bothered to bring guards. Reliable reports said that Queen Ozma had made it safe once more to travel all roads in the Empire. Kabumpo sucked in a huge gulp of air and thought, “There’s folk from all across the Fairylands traveling now, and it’s brought out the low-life. I should have known! They don’t really fear that little Half-Fairy! Ozma ought to conduct herself – or is it himself - more like Glinda! No one dares even to litter down in Quadling!”
Kabumpo had been a war elephant in his youth, but he did not relish battle with his royal charge in tow. These days, he mostly launched verbal assaults.
Kabumpo ran on, but he slowed. "I've got to have you get off, Pompa!" Pompadore got down and it was a relief. His princely backside and associated regions were numb and sore from the ride. Not 'princely' in the usual sense, for princes seldom have dashing derrieres. The Prince really did possess a fine, slim physique: enduring legs, a muscled back, and taut buttocks. His arms, chest, and shoulders could form a secure nest to snuggle into. Beginning at age sixteen, he had trained in the Pumperdinkian military, where he was now an officer. He had not seen Ozma since they were eighteen. That was three years ago and he hoped to make a better impression.
Kabumpo and Prince Pompadore ran the remaining miles to the Emerald City gates. By the time they got there, the two were breathing heavily and sweating a great deal. Prince Pompadore began to knock, but didn’t get the chance. Kabumpo trumpeted: “We aren’t going to stand here all night!” The Gatekeeper almost fell off his stool. He had been taking a break, eating a snack of biscuits and a jar of tamorna preserves he had gotten from Jellia Jamb’s mother earlier today. He opened a panel, but he knew who was there: the Terrible Trumpeter himself.
The Gatekeeper had been going since daybreak, admitting last-minute visitors to the Emerald City. Never had he seen so many visitors. He said to himself, “I just need to get through this and I’m off in a few minutes!”
Just then, a group of three persons bounded up to the gates. A magnificent baritone rang out, though the speaker was winded: “We are not too late to enter, I should hope!” Kabumpo braced for battle. But he could now see that it was just the band hired for the event. Their leader was a tall, handsome man with a striking black mustache. He carried a fiddle and smiled to everyone. Another was thin and wiry and carried a lute. The last was a broad giant of a man, and he carried a great black chest on his shoulder. A harp was lashed to his hip.
The Gatekeeper washed down his bite of biscuit, smiled, and waved them all through. He slouched back onto his stool. The two parties came through the gate. Ojo ran up. He had been getting travelers sorted after they entered the City. He directed the envoy from Pumperdink and the band members to the inns which still had vacancies. The royal party from Pumperdink had already arranged accommodations at the historic Green Dragon of Atlantis Inn.
Ojo finished with his tasks and joined the Gatekeeper. Ojo broke out his snack: dried apple slices all the way from the famous town of Appleton, down in Quadling. It was said the apples got their excellent taste due to spells cast long ago by the Fairy Princess Nelebel. Glinda the Good herself had brought a wagon-full with her, and distributed them, and harmless magic charms, to the castle servants.
Speaking of Glinda, looking down from the castle library, stood a kind-faced, imposing woman with red hair. The Scarecrow dipped his quill pen and asked, "It was just Kabumpo, wasn't it, Glinda?" The Sorceress replied, "Yes, as expected. But my mentor in childhood told me never to assume things, and I still follow that rule. Nevertheless, something seems out of order." Scraps looked up from reading a poetry book and rhymed, "It can't be the books on the shelves, or the inkwells on the table! You've been adjusting those as much as you're able!" Perhaps it was nothing, but Glinda always stayed prepared.
I should explain things a bit for Non-Fairylanders. The Festival of Laughter is the most important religious celebration in the Fairylands, and not just for Ozians. Almost everyone celebrates it, even in the far-flung Nonestic Islands and the lands near the Forest of Burzee. Anticipation was high, for tomorrow, the High Comedian would regale a grand audience with his monologue.
One does not celebrate this week with sacrifice or prayer. One celebrates with jokes, farces, parodies, and puns. Funny speech of all kinds, some of it nice, some of it naughty. All types of funny speech and acts were part of this week. The Liturgy of Ludicrousness would last all week, open to all. The Sacrament of Sarcasm would be performed at an obscure time by the Cardinals of Cynicism.
This was a mortal holiday, and Fairies and their kind did not celebrate it. That is not to say that Fairies have no sense of humor. Woodland Fairies - Ozma's ancestors - laugh and frolic under the moonlight. Sea Fairies jump for joy at silly word play. Daemons are given to irony, sarcasm, and dry humor, but this belies their good hearts. Nomes and other Evil Spirits laugh at others’ misfortunes and play practical jokes on each other.