By EW Farnsworth
ALL THE PIECES of the living jigsaw puzzle that was the wedding of Sheriff Fatty Millstone and Dr Sarah Pickford came together on the evening before their special event. The sheriff had opted not to observe the rites of the bachelor’s last evening. Instead of carousing to the point of oblivion, he sported with his clones and Dr Ibngort Prbzt in the hot tub until the wee hours.
Trudy Prbzt, as Maid of Honour, had overseen the final details of the dresses and flowers for the ladies of the bride’s court. She was burning the midnight oil, reviewing the colour-coded wedding tickets one last time. The tabloids had served a useful purpose in explaining the ticketing process to the public, but questions had been raised, nonetheless.
To be sure, the press had their quota of yellow wedding tickets—the colour having been selected to denote the ‘yellow press,’ this though five tickets each were doled out to the national press publishers and feature writers. For once, the newshounds of Picklock Lane had an advantage over their prestigious rivals in their having been allowed to interview the groom, the Best Man, the bride and her Maid of Honour the day before the ceremony.
So Lance Crenshaw’s tabloid served as a model for covering the blissful events, with diagrams and labels for persons, locations and times. If a participant in the wedding wanted to catch every nuance, he or she could use that newspaper as a guide during the ceremonies and as a memento afterward.
The clones stood to duty from first light, tracking Dolly the village cow. She had been curious about the new elements in her demesne, and no one could guess where she might have planted her cow pats while nosing around the bleachers or through the parking area or on the hillside where the temporary gaols had been deposited. The clones had been given explicit instruction on keeping the bovine away from the tables where the flat cakes were spread out. Those delicacies had been decorated with such realism that the cow returned to them repeatedly, most likely remembering how delicious similar decorations had been during the last such wedding she had attended.
From daybreak, Lady Lucille had been busy in the Butterfly Paradise since it was going to be used as a prime venue for formal photographs. She did not want a single flower to be out of place or wilted when the guests arrived. Her household members in their new livery were prepping the Hudibras Estate with similar care as the MP was going to return from his Parliamentary address for a punctilious inspection of his own.
Lance Crenshaw was the first newshound to arrive on the greensward. Followed by his cartoonist, he was checking the copy of his morning articles. He duly noted that three free-range tentacles were stretching in their exercise cage. He exchanged pleasantries with Lady Lucille before ascending the hill behind the Butterfly Paradise to reach the apiary. There on the level plane on top of the hill, he inspected the five newly installed portable gaols, which his cartoonist filled with mythological creatures as he sketched.
‘Good morning, Crenshaw!’ the sheriff said.
‘Good morning, Sheriff. This is certainly a great day in the morning. How are the wedding preparations going?’
‘Fortunately, all the final details are coming together. I want to thank you for providing such a clear guide to the proceedings in your tabloid. Tell your publisher I commend him and your team for having outdone yourselves.’
‘I am sure he will be pleased to know you approve. He will be amongst the few witnesses of the exchange of vows. He asked me to set up recording equipment to capture the sound of the Old Universal Language.’
‘If you require assistance translating the exchange into English, Dr Prbzt can help.’
‘Can he also help with introductions to the bride’s guests?’
‘You should probably get your help from Trudy, the Maid of Honour. Fear not. She plans to distribute formal pictures of the bride’s guests with a key, including titles.’
‘I remember when Trudy was a precocious student of Dr Prbzt—and one of the brightest young waitresses at the Cracked Bell pub. She has become a mature lady since her trip to Indonesia! That reminds me—it is high time my tabloid ran an update on progress with that research. Every time I interview Dr Prbzt, I feel I have gone back to school again.’
‘I will give the philologist fair warning of your intention to interview him again.’
‘Thank you. Now about these portable gaols. Do you expect to fill them during the festivities?’
‘I just do not know. They are available in case the ordinary gaol fills to capacity. I do not think your cartoonist has the right idea. His fantastical creations are comical, but real cut-purses are a sinister, menacing lot.’
‘I will rein in my cartoonist. I have asked him to focus on the college and university faculty who are deeply involved in the space, space medicine and space languages disciplines. The more I delve into the implications of recent discoveries, the more I am convinced we must think about rewriting all our textbooks about the universe.’
‘Now you have hit upon a subject on which my bride is an expert. I believe you will find interviewing her will be as illuminating as Dr Prbzt.’
‘Sheriff Millstone, I must say I envy you. Your tenement has become a vibrant little university in itself. What with the philology centre and the space medicine centre, your evening conversations must be revelatory.’
With that, the newshound fetched his cartoonist and descended to the park. Meanwhile, the sheriff walked the long way down the reverse side of the hill to the tenement where the clones were making ready to depart, some for the Hudibras Estate and others for duty stations scattered along Picklock Lane and the park.
Millstone told Dr Prbzt about Crenshaw’s plan to interview him and his wife. He then asked his Best Man whether he could see the wedding rings one more time before he changed into his wedding apparel.
Dr Prbzt, who was already wearing his formal attire, reached into his waistcoat pocket and retrieved the two rings, which had been perfectly sized. The twenty-two-karat gold rings with encrusted diamonds and emeralds were wrought in the shape of octopods. Fatty examined the rare specimens in the light before entrusting them again to his Best Man for safe keeping.
Fatty had not seen his bride since the night before in the hot tub. She was a traditionalist about his not seeing the wedding gown until the procession of the wedding ceremony. A pair of limousines with blackened windows stood by to drive them to the Hudibras Estate, and each was to be delivered to a different door to avoid their chance meeting each other before the critical time.
While the sheriff was inspecting his retinue for the third time, one of his enforcer clones came to announce the apprehension of the first cut-purse of the occasion. The unfortunate miscreant had attempted to snatch the Lady Lucille’s purse while she was tending her enclosed garden. She had noticed his sneaking around her belongings, and she grabbed her bumbershoot to fend him off. In fact, she gave him such a hiding with her weapon that he bawled that she was brutalising him. A clone took the cowering, would-be thief into custody and led him to the regular gaol. The clone’s partner (as they always enforced in pairs) went straight to the sheriff, who naturally wanted to be kept apprised of any arrests on his special day.
Fatty remarked to Ibngort, ‘Imagine having the temerity to try your luck robbing the wife of the PM, of all people. Anyway, we have our first catch of the day. The Magistrate will help us dispose of him at a suitable interval.’
The groom’s limo departed first and drove to the rear of the Hudibras Estate, where Sheriff Millstone and his Best Man exited to the rear kitchen area to wait until they were called to the main hall. The bride’s limo departed next and drove to the front entrance of the estate where the bride and her Maid of Honour stepped up the stairs to the vestibule where the PM himself stood waiting for them. As the bride’s father was deceased, the PM had volunteered to give away the bride as if he were her father.
Looking from the vestibule to the main hall decked with flowers and guests thronging in their finery on both sides of the aisle, the bride made inevitable comparisons to her first marriage to the Marquis. Then she had been a child bride in an arranged match. Now she was in her maturity as an heiress wishing to fulfil the dream of advancing space medicine for many lifetimes.
As Sarah’s mind gathered wool about the past and future, her bridesmaids and flower girls filled out their ranks, each holding baskets of flowers. One bridesmaid had a deep basket full of rose petals complemented with attar of rose scent. She was stationed to scatter the petals on the red carpet all the way to the enclave where the groom stood waiting to receive the bride.
The main staging area where the vows were to be exchanged was covered with a canopy, and priests of Christian, Judaic, Buddhist and Cthulhuvian persuasion stood in a ring.
‘Here Comes the Bride’ was struck up on the organ, and Sir Douglas led Sarah down the aisle. The assemblage gasped at the stunning beauty of the blushing ride and her entourage. The PM guided the bride’s hand to rest on the groom’s arm. Then he withdrew to his place beside the Lady Lucille.
Now the Cthulhuvian priest stepped forward and said a few words in the Old Universal Language. Taking this as their cue, the wedding couple said their vows in the ancient tongue. The crowd knew the vows had been exchanged when the Cthulhuvian priest raised his tentacles and uttered what must have been a blessing. The bride and groom knelt facing each other. Dr Prbzt placed the rings upon a satin pillow between them, and the priest used four of his tentacles to slide the rings on the proper fingers. He then gestured for the bridal pair to rise.
The recessional began, and Fatty led Sarah down the aisle to the vestibule. There the Best Man orchestrated their entry into the limo, which immediately drove the couple to the park for their reception.
A few selected photographers covered the wedding ceremony at the estate, but as the participants and witnesses gathered at the park, it seemed everyone wanted his or her own pictures of the event. Naturally, Dolly the cow posed in many of the photographs on the greensward. Dr Prbzt marshalled the male retinue for pictures in the Butterfly Paradise, and Mrs Prbzt similarly marshalled the females.
At the tables where the wedding cake and the flat cakes with flowers lay spread, the traditional cutting of the cakes and the feeding of the cake to both parties took place. Meanwhile, Dolly was held between two halter ropes by clones, though she dearly wanted to partake.
The sheriff’s enforcer clones apprehended thirty more would-be thieves of both sexes for transport to the gaol. As the bride’s people lined up for their pictures, the clones kept careful watch over their belongings. Then the groom’s people stood for their pictures while the clones remained vigilant.
Lance Crenshaw balanced a plate of wedding cake as he remarked, ‘Sheriff, I have counted thirty-one at the gaol.’
‘Mr Crenshaw, your count is valid, but the day is young. By my estimate, we shall have more than our quota of fifty by the day’s close.’
‘Is my cartoonist free to sketch the prisoners?’
‘Why not? And rendering their furtive and despairing expressions will, I hope, be a caution for similar would-be cut-purses in future.’
Now the photographers were exercising free play as the guests mingled and drank champagne. On Picklock Lane, the Cracked Bell pub had opened with gifts of free pints of bitter for everyone who could present wedding tickets.
The tickets had been distributed so every sector of the citizenry was represented among the celebrants. Artists, poets, quants, tailors, chefs, radicals, orators, students, musicians, clergy, farmers, inventors, astro-photographers, thieves, in essence, the world in microcosm.
Carousing continued in the Cracked Bell until normal closing time and on the greensward until the champagne had all been consumed. By then, as the sheriff had predicted, his gaols held fifty-five guests, all of whom the Magistrate had agreed to see the next morning for speedy adjudication.
When the pub had closed, Dr Prbzt and the male clones bussed the park and freed Dolly from her tethers. They then retreated to the tenement hot tub where the happy marriage couple and the bridesmaids were quietly celebrating the perfect marriage. All the clones had to admire the gold octopus rings, and the Prbzts had to recapitulate amongst themselves all the various circumstances of the wedding.
‘Ibngort, I have not been as happy since our own marriage. For me, that was a lifetime high I shall never forget.’
The philologist said, ‘Trudy, it is a good thing we managed to restrain Dolly during the occasion. We will, I’m afraid, have less luck restraining the yellow press from getting their desired interviews starting tomorrow morning.’
‘I thought you and the sheriff were going to be tied up with the Magistrate tomorrow morning.’
‘The Magistrate informed us this evening that his judgments would be completed before the Cracked Bell pub opens. The sheriff and he had a moment of clemency. We shall see. In any case, we need not lose any sleep thinking about that matter. I was thinking we might relive our own wedding night—in case you have forgotten.’
Trudy smiled at that delicious thought. She looked around the hot tub and saw Fatty and Sarah had already withdrawn. She wasted no time nudging her man out the door to begin their own reminiscing.
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