That Which I Detest

Goodman eyes his cigar with a look of something like suspicion. He turns it around in his fingers, watching the smoke and appraising the twinkling embers at the end. He and the Master are out in the field with their billy clubs and it is a beautiful day. He takes a little puff and coughs. “Master,” he says.

The Master is hunched nearby with a cigar of his own between his teeth, trying to work out the best angle from which to strike the small ceramic spheroid in order to land it in a very small hole some six yards away. Swinging, he clocks the little ball and it goes rolling along the grass in the midday sun. It misses the mark poorly, and the Master curses. “Ashes!” he shouts, and his cigar leaps from his mouth in the process. Flailing, he reaches to seize it and catches the hot-ember end first, burning himself. He shouts again and smacks his hand on his trousers, smearing them with a little soot. Goodman looks on, concerned, but also amused by the irony of the Master’s choice of profanity.

“Master,” he says again.

The Master is heaving. “What,” he says.

“I do think that all of this is a fools’ errand.” Goodman reaches for the flagon at his side and has some ale. He grimaces because it has warmed in the summer sun.

“Do you mean to call me a fool?” The Master says.

Goodman replaces his flagon. “And myself as well, my lord.” He shifts in the seat of the MotorCart. “It appears to me that we seem to be torturing ourselves with pursuits to which our fathers were taken, and not ones that suit us.” Goodman makes to have another puff of his cigar, but at the last second has a flash of clarity and tosses it to the ground, repelled. “I am disgusted by cigars, warm ale, sunburn, and this pilly sport. I have had enough. I will not make a show of interest in that which I detest.” Goodman throws out his hand in a knifing motion. “No longer.” He folds his arms.

The Master, taken truly aback, is for a spell speechless. In place of a response, the Master simply stares at Goodman’s cigar on the ground. After a moment, the Master looks at his own cigar and appears to ponder what Goodman has said. He sighs, and his shoulders slump. “You know, Goodman,” he says, tossing his cigar to the ground, looking like defeat. “I really would appreciate it if you weren’t such a yay-sayer.”

“Sire?”

“Why must you pre-empt me at every turn?”

Goodman is confused. “Master, I—“

The Master continues. “I have thought the self-same thing about all of these things and more! For years! O how I detest this blasted sport and the sunburn! And do you think I fancy an ale that resembles fresh, frothy horse piss?”

Goodman shakes his head.

“No! Who would!?” The Master throws up his hands and approaches the MotorCart. He climbs in and starts the ignition.

Goodman has to grab onto the passenger restraints because at the Master’s beck and call, the MotorCart peels up and away, and the two of them speed across the field, towards the Castle of the Raisón.

Later that evening, a mean fire roils in the hearth of the drawing room, tended to by a Master with half a bottle of Siren’s Wine already in him and no supper at all.

Goodman, having dined alone, joins his familiar in the darkened chamber. Orange flame-glow flickers on the walls. The whole room is the lit end of a cigar. He sits in his high-backed chair and eyes the Master. “My lord,” he says. “Might thou explain the nature of thine behavior this afternoon?”

The Master laughs but it is more like a grunt. “Goodman do not speak like that.”

“Sire?”

“The Reader does not like it, Goodman.” The Master turns to look at him. “All the ‘thou’ and ‘thine’ and ‘bequeatheth mine’ talk doth render these narratives a trite difficult to parse.” The Master swoons and almost collapses.

“Master!” Goodman says, leaping towards him. “Art thou ill?” He catches and steadies the Master.

“Art thou ill?” The Master laughs. “Do you not hear it, Goodman?”

“Yes, sire, I hear it.” He helps the Master into his chair and takes the bottle of Siren’s Wine from his familiar’s hand. “You need to have some supper, my lord.” He places the back of his hand on the Master’s forehead. “Let me fetch something.” He rises and makes for the chamber door. When he is at the threshold, the Master calls to him.

“Goodman,” he says.

Goodman turns around. “Yes, sire?”

“Why are you so ever kind, and I so ever cruel? Do you not detest me?”

Goodman looks at his familiar and his face tightens slightly. “My lord. I do not show interest in that which I detest.”