Only the Most Mundane

It is early Spring and the Master is listening intently to the quiet chirping of songbirds. He sits by an open window; a fragrant midday breeze pushes against the lace curtains, tickling them and making them sway. Every so often a feathered friend alights on the sill before twittering a little bit and disappearing with a farewell chirp. The Master is relaxing. The Master is content, and such is the Master’s temperament when all of a sudden, there is an awful clanging from behind him and he jumps. He gasps and brings his hand to his heart, but it is just Goodman calling him on the AudioHorn. Annoyed, the Master stands and brushes the butter cookie crumbs from his shirt and trousers. He crosses the chamber and picks up the handle.

“What.”

“Oh! Master. I thought you would not answer,” Goodman says on the other end of the wire. He sounds winded.

The Master’s eyes widen in frustration. He shrugs. “Well?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry. I am phoning to tell you that my day’s work is complete and I am now headed back.” “Back where.”

“What?” “Back—“

“Oh! I am headed back to the commons. Where else would I be headed to at the end of the day?”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” Goodman says. He sounds less winded now and more pleased with himself.

“No, I mean, really? You phoned me to tell me this? That you have completed your day’s work?”

“Why, yes, my lord. I am not sure I…” “Goodman! That has to be the most mundane, inane thing to phone a person to tell a person!”

“Sire?” “I was sitting up here, enjoying the birds and my quiet, in my upholstery chair, thinking of trinkets, wondering how it all fit together, how we all got to this little rock in the Cosmos, who might have done it, and why, and where we are going, and for how long, and then, then! This clacket racket goes off, only for me to cease in my solitude and pick up the AudioHorn for you to tell me you finished sorting your envelopes and you are returning to the commons!”

There is a long silence on the line before Goodman answers. “Master…I do quite a lot more than sort envelopes.”

The Master growls and hangs up.

Later, at supper, Goodman and the Master are having cold soup in the Dining Hall together. The Master, uninterested by his meal, is the first to speak.

“I think, Goodman, that I do not like my soup.”

“No?”

“No.” He pauses, waiting for Goodman so say anything further. He does not. “Goodman.”

“Yes?”

“I think that I will not finish my entrée. It does not pique my interest.”

“No?”

“No.” The Master furrows his brow. “Goodman.”

“Yes?”

“I think I will skip my cold soup and nibble on this piece of bread, instead.”

Goodman waves his spoon without looking up. “If that is what you wish, my lord. It does not bother me.”

The Master’s face hardens. “Goodman!”

“Yes?”

“I think I will skip this entire evening and storm off to another chamber to sulk!”

Goodman’s eyebrows shoot up, but after a spell, he nods, and then shrugs. “If that is what you wish—“

“Goodman!” The Master bolts up, rattling the table.

The Master’s familiar sits upright and looks at him.

“I think I will smash every piece of china in the gallery and drink all the Siren’s Wine.”

Goodman tilts his head, prodding the Master to continue.

“I will tear up all the tapestries and send them to my Great Aunt Marjorie because I know she has a pollen allergy.”

Goodman tilts his head the other way as if to say, ‘go on.’

“I will light a fire beneath the Left Wing Apothecary and bring half the castle to the ground in red-black embers.”

Goodman smiles and puts out his hands. “Now, Master, let us not get carried off.”

The Master is out of breath and angry, but he thinks a moment, and sits. He sighs. “You are right.”

“I know,” Goodman says. “But I am glad you said those fun things. Your soup commentary was terribly boring.”

The Master throws up his hands.

Goodman turns to the camera and winks.