Perhaps It's A Chemist

Are we WALKING? asks Terence.

It's not far, says Arthur.

Better not be, says Terence. Or you'd have to carry me. 

You don't have to come, says Arthur.

But I want a compass, says Terence. And you might forget.

Do you know what a compass is? asks Arthur.

Yes, says Terence. It was in one of the stories.

Baby-Glossy is not here to tell Arthur it wasn't.

What is it then? asks Arthur.

What if you were a swan? says Terence.

I wouldn't need one, says Arthur.

That's right, says Terence.

They are passing the tennis courts. It's hot already. No one is playing tennis.

After the tennis courts, a row of shops. The one on the end is the chemist.

The chemist is shut. They look through the window.

There is someone inside.

Perhaps it's a chemist. The door opens.

Not open yet, says the chemist. Oh! What happened to you?

Sharks, says Arthur. I need a new bandage.

Come in, says the chemist. Sit down.

And a thermometer, says Arthur.

Oops! says the chemist. A thermometer. What for?

A replacement, says Arthur. But first I need a waterproof bandage, so I can go surfing.

That's very sensible, says the chemist. Blood attracts sharks.

I know, says Arthur. 

Have you got a compass? asks Terence.

No, I don't, says the chemist. But I do have a thermometer. Just wait while I find a waterproof bandage.

The chemist goes behind the counter, and rummages through a box of wrapped bandages.

Comes back with a wrapped bandage.

Thanks, says Arthur, shoving it into his pocket.

Would you like me to get you some ointment? asks the chemist.

Here's some! says Terence. He picks a red tube from a shelf.

Pawpaw ointment.

That's good stuff, says the chemist. Will you have it? 

Yes, says Arthur. Now can I see your thermometers?

Sure, says the chemist. Digital? Non contact?

Let's see them all, says Arthur.

The chemist brings out a selection of thermometers.

NOW! says Terence. Let's look for a COMPASS!

We won't find one, says the chemist. But you can look round the shop if you like.

Yay! says Terence. Come with me. I don't know what one looks like.

They are usually round, says the chemist. With a north pointing pointer.

Terence and the chemist walk up and down the aisles, looking for something round with a north pointing pointer.

Arthur looks though the selection of thermometers.

One (small, digital) is about to go missing. 

Steamy Dream

Wait! says Saint Roley. What are you doing?

Louisa puts down the grater.

I guess I should wait, says Louisa.

What for exactly? says Saint Roley.

Sweezus to wake up, says Louisa.

If he ever wakes up, says Saint Roley. 

I'll wake him up! cries Terence, racing for the spare bedroom.

He pushes the door open. 

Sweezus is sleeping soundly. 

WAKE UP! shouts Terence.

Whah! says Sweezus. What's up little buddy?

Louisa's got a grater! says Terence. She's waiting for you to wake up.

She'll be waiting for Arthur, says Sweezus. 

He shakes Arthur. Wake up, bro!

Whah! says Arthur. What time is it?

Dunno, says Sweezus. But Louisa's got a grater. Could be for your scabs.

Merde! says Arthur. I'm not having her grate my scabs off. I'm going to the chemist.

Won't be open yet, says Sweezus. Come into the kitchen. She's probably kidding.

Sweezus enters the kitchen.

How are you feeling? asks Louisa. Stomach cramps, nausea, the runs?

Nice greeting, says Sweezus. I slept okay thanks. 

Good, says Louisa. I'm just going to add a magic ingredient to the sushi.

Awesome! says Sweezus. Like what, a hallucinogenic mushroom? 

Grated orange peel, says Louisa. I had this dream in the night.

It was a cool dream. Ending up rather steamy.

Excuse me, says the Ear. Is this ME you'll be grating?

Yes you, Ear, says Louisa. 

My Ear, says Baby-Glossy.

But I made it, says Louisa.

It became mine after HE ate my un, says Baby-Glossy. Now this Ear is my un.

I am his un, says the Ear. And furthermore, I am stuck to Peut-étre, who belongs to Terence.

I do not, says Peut-étre. 

What's this fuss? asks Gaius. I'm sure Louisa only wants a small grating.

Yes, a small grating, says Louisa. It's not like I haven't shaved Ear before.

True! Ear remembers!

Arthur comes out of the bedroom, blood dripping down his leg from from a knee scab, and blood on his toe.

You picked your scabs, man! says Sweezus. Too bad, you didn't need to. 

I'm on my way to the chemist, says Arthur. Anyone want anything?

A compass, says Terence.

A thermometer, says Sweezus. I owe it to Captain du Couedic.

Sure, says Arthur. Don't know about the compass.

I do, says Terence. I'll come with you.

Okay, says Arthur.

Terence will be a useful distraction.

The Grater Good

I agree with Baby-Glossy, says Saint Roley. Your story is cruel.

It is cruel to deprive the world of thirty thousand ortolans annually, says Gaius.

It is cruel to tell a baby bird that this happens, in the guise of a story, says Saint Roley. 

Without a compass, says Terence.

I didn't say compass, says Baby-Glossy. 

A moral compass, says Gaius. You did say that.

Because it wasn't un proper story, says Baby-Glossy. 

Did Ivan have a compass? asks Terence.

Who is Ivan? asks Gaius.

The merchant's son in the second story, says Saint Roley.

He had un kaftan, says Baby-Glossy. He put it over the baby birds in the storm.

Ah, I see, says Gaius. Yes, he had a moral compass.

But did his parents put the compass in the boat when they gave him the sleeping potion? asks Terence.

No, says Saint Roley. We can safely assume that they didn't have one.

Back to my story, says Gaius. I was simply attempting to raise awareness of an outdated practice.

And you did, says Saint Roley. Perhaps Baby-Glossy will grow up to become an activist.

NO! says Terence. He can't be an activist.

What is un activist? asks Baby-Glossy.

Doing tricks in a circus, says Terence. You wouldn't like it.

No I wouldn't, says Baby-Glossy.

I might like it, says the Ear, but I'm stuck to Peut-étre.

We're a team, says Peut-étre.

Bricks can't do tricks, says Terence.

Louisa enters the kitchen. Good morning, Gaius. Oh! What's happened?

We're stuck together, says the Ear, so we can't join the circus.

Never mind, says Louisa. You can still have an interesting future, if you're willing.

They're not! says Terence.

We are, says Peut-étre. We'd like a interesting future.

I knew you would, says Louisa. 

She opens a drawer and takes out out a grater.

Thirty Thousand

Gaius comes into the kitchen.

We had three stories, says Terence.

Very good, says Gaius, filling a kettle.

A cup of tea would be nice.

And look what happened to my Ear, says Baby-Glossy.

And my brick, says Terence.

Hm. Stuck together.

Gaius looks for the tea bags. 

Stuck together for nine hundred years, says Terence.

Nine hundred, says Gaius. Then what?

Gaius rinses a mug.

They sing, says Baby-Glossy, and walk around in chains behind someone ringing un bell

Then they die! says Terence. No wait, first they turn into people.

Your Ear and your brick won't turn into people, says Saint Roley. Because they weren't people before.

Gaius has dropped his tea bag into the mug and is adding hot water.

He sits down to wait for it to brew.

I gather this is an extrapolation of one of your stories, says Gaius.

Yes, says Saint Roley. The Children of Lir.

A sad story, says Gaius. I know it. 

All three stories were sad in their way, says Saint Roley.

All bird stories? asks Gaius.

They were, says Saint Roley. The Language of Birds, and The Crane Wife.

I hope, says Gaius, testing his tea with his finger, that Terence and Baby-Glossy showed empathy.

Yes and no, says Saint Roley. 

I have a bird story, says Gaius, taking a sip of his tea.

Tell it, says Saint Roley. 

The ortolan bunting, says Gaius, is a delicate songbird, but this does not prevent it from being eaten by humans.

Like a chicken, says Terence.

A chicken is not caught, fattened, drowned in armagnac, cooked and eaten whole, bones and all, except for the beak, says Gaius. Every year, thirty thousand ortolans are caught for this purpose.

Baby-Glossy can't believe it. 

I presume by the French, as you mentioned armagnac? says Saint Roley.

Indeed, says Gaius. The tradition is to eat the cooked ortolan feet first, in one mouthful, with a napkin placed over one's head. 

Shocking, says Saint Roley. I suppose that's because they're ashamed.

Either that or it helps to capture the aroma, says Gaius.

Is that the end of the story? asks Terence.

Yes, says Gaius. What have you learned from it?

Beaks are harder than bones, says Terence.

And you Baby-Glossy?

That is un cruel story, with no moral compass, says Baby-Glossy 

Un Curse

Terence, Baby-Glossy and Saint Roley go back inside.

No one is up yet.

Keep telling the story, says Terence. 

Wait, says Saint Roley. Something has happened.

What? asks Terence.

Look, says Saint Roley. Your Ear and your brick are stuck together.

It is true. The Ear and Peut-étre are stuck together.

Un curse, says Baby-Glossy.

Nine hundred years, says Terence.

Then what? asks the Ear.

You'll still be an Ear, says Terence. Bad luck.

It seems I must finish the story, says Saint Roley. Sit still and listen.

At some point in the nine hundred years, Saint Patrick had come to Ireland.

I know him! says Terence. He wears a green hat.

That's him, says Saint Roley. One day a monk arrived at the place where the swans were, and heard them singing. He asked if they were the Children of Lir. They allowed him to bind them with silver chains and lead them away. He was ringing a bell.

Why? asks Terence.

Why what? asks Saint Roley The bell, or the chains, or why they allowed it?

The bell, says Baby-Glossy.

To get their attention, says Saint Roley. 

The silver chains, says Terence. 

To keep them together, says Saint Roley.

Why they allowed it, says the Ear.

You can't ask, says Terence. You don't even know the first part of the story.

I don't need to, says the Ear.

That is so, says Saint Roley. Now the King of Connacht saw the swans and wanted to give them to his wife, but the monk refused to release them. So the King grabbed at them and their feathers came off.

Ha ha! laughs Terence.

It's no joke, says Saint Roley. Their feathers came off, revealing three old men and one old woman, thin and bony. They asked the monk to baptise them.

THAT'S funny, says Terence.

We can't expect them to make good decisions at this stage, says Saint Roley. They died soon after and were buried. The monk was sad.

Was the king sad? asks Baby-Glossy. 

That isn't recorded, says Saint Roley.

Time's Up

A curtain, says Terence.

Why would Ivan go hunting with a curtain? asks Saint Roley. 

To hide behind, says Terence.

I don't think so, says Saint Roley. In my mind a kaftan is some sort of coat.

What's un coat? asks Baby-Glossy.

A jacket, says Saint Roley. So Ivan took off his jacket and covered the baby birds with it.

I don't think it's un jacket, says Baby-Glossy. That would not please the parents.

How do you know? asks Terence.

Baby-Glossy looks sad. 

I don't know, says Baby-Glossy. But I think un kaftan is soft, warm and woolly.

It probably is, says Saint Roley. 

Did he get it back? asks Terence.

That is not specified in the story, says Saint Roley. I suppose so. 

Good, says Terence. Was he wearing it when he got pushed out to sea in a boat?

That again is not specified, says Saint Roley. And you were told not to interrupt the story.

But it's finished, says Terence, And it's still not morning. Tell us another one.

I'll start one, says Saint Roley, but it spans nine hundred years, so you may not hear the ending.

We don't care, says Terence.

This is the story of the Children of Lir, says Saint Roley. They were turned into swans by a jealous stepmother. 

Were they boys? asks Terence. 

Three boys and a girl, says Saint Roley. The girl was the smartest. She asked the stepmother to set a limit.

If she was so smart, says Terence, why didn't she ask the stepmother not to do it?

That's not how curses work, says Saint Roley. The stepmother agreed to the limit.

What is un limit? asks Baby-Glossy.

When time's up, says Saint Roley. So the limits she set were: three hundred years on Loch Dairbhreach, three hundred years on Sruth na Maoilé, and three hundred years on Iorrus Domnann. Each place was more frigid than the last. Their feet stuck to the ice. It was awful. They prayed to be protected.

Who to? asks Terence.

The King of Heaven, says Saint Roley. I don't know who that was, at the time. But the upshot was, they were protected.

With a kaftan? asks Baby-Glossy.

No way, says Terence. What they needed was shoes.

Neither, says Saint Roley. They just didn't die of the cold.

Woop, says Terence.

After nine hundred years they went back to where they had come from, continues Saint Roley. But Lir was long dead. and the place was deserted.

Were they swans then, or children? asks Terence.

Still swans, says Saint Roley. 

But you said...., says Terence.

Times up, says Saint Roley, as the first sunbeam turns the sky rosy.

The Kaftan

Is it morning yet? asks Baby-Glossy.

Almost, says Saint Roley. There's time for one more story. 

My story, says Baby-Glossy.

And mine, says Terence.

You had yours, says Baby-Glossy. 

But I can listen, says Terence. 

Of course you can listen, says Saint Roley. But no interrupting.

Can I interrupt? asks Baby-Glossy.

Only if you must, says Saint Roley. 

This story is about Ivan, the son of a merchant. Ivan was hunting in the forest when a storm arose, and he heard frantic squawking. In a branch above him was a nest with four baby birds and no parents.

I won't like this story, says Baby-Glossy.

You will, says Saint Roley.

Ivan placed his kaftan over the baby birds to protect them from the storm. The storm ended. The parent birds returned and were grateful. What can we give you? they asked Ivan. Ivan answered: Teach me the the language of birds. Stay with us three days, said the parents, and we will teach you.

Ivan went back to his own parents, who had a nightingale that they kept in a cage. Now you can tell us what her beautiful song is about, said Ivan's father. Not long after, the nightingale sang.

It's a sad song, said Ivan. But what are the words? asked his father. She sings that the day will come when Ivan the merchant's son will become Ivan the prince and he will be served by his father, said Ivan.

After that his parents no longer trusted Ivan. One night they gave him a sleeping potion and set him adrift in a small boat on the sea. 

I like to end the story here, says Saint Roley.

But we don't know if he turned into a prince, says Terence.

It's better that way, says Saint Roley. What do you think, Baby Glossy?

What's a kaftan? asks Baby-Glossy.