Chris Patterson - Going Postal

He relaxed. He let himself be led down the stairs, and turned round. Ah, yes, that's right. You've got to make the initiate fear, but everyone knows it's just a party game. It'll sound bad, it might even feel bad, but it won't be bad. He remembered joining - what was it?

Oh yes - the Men of the Furrow, in some town out in the stalks.* He had been blindfolded, of course, and the Men had made all the horrific noises they could imagine, and then a voice in the darkness had said, ‘Shake hands with the Old Master!' and Moist had reached out and shaken a goat's foot. Those who got out of there with clean pants won.

* In areas more wooded, areas less dominated by the cabbage and general brassica industry, it would of course have been in the sticks.

Next day he'd swindled three of his trusting new Brothers out of eighty dollars. That didn't seem quite so funny now.

The old postmen were taking him into the big hall. He could tell by the echoes. And there were other people there, according to those little hairs on the back of his neck. Not just people, maybe; he thought he heard a muffled growl. But that was how it went, right? Things had to sound worrying. The key was to be bold, to act brave and forthright.

His escorts left him. Moist stood in darkness for a moment, and then felt a hand grasp his elbow.

‘It's me, sir. Probationary Senior Postman Groat, sir. Don't you worry about a thing, sir. I'm your Temporary Deacon for tonight, sir.'

‘Is this necessary, Mr Groat?' sighed Moist. ‘I was appointed postmaster, you know.'

‘Appointed, yes. Accepted, not yet, sir. Proof of posting is not proof of delivery, sir.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Can't tell secrets to an Unfranked Man, sir,' said Groat piously. ‘You've done well to get this far, sir.'

‘Oh, all right,' said Moist, trying to sound jovial. ‘What's the worst that can happen, eh?'

Groat was silent.

‘I said—' Moist began.

‘I was just working that out, sir,' said Groat. ‘Let's see... yes, sir. The worst that can happen is you lose all your fingers on one hand, are crippled for life, and break half the bones in your body. Oh, and then they don't let you join. But don't you worry about a thing, sir, not a thing!'

Up ahead, a voice boomed: ‘Who brings the Unfranked Man?'

Beside Moist, Groat cleared his throat and, when he spoke, his voice actually shook.

‘I, probationary Senior Postman Tolliver Groat, do bring the Unfranked Man.'

‘You did say that about the bones to frighten me, right?' hissed Moist.

‘And does he stand in the Gloom of Night?' the voice demanded.

‘He does now, Worshipful Master!' shouted Groat happily, and whispered to the hooded Moist, ‘Some of the old boys are really happy about you getting the sign back.'

‘Good. Now, these broken bones you mentioned—'

‘Then let him walk the Walk!' the unseen voice commanded.

‘We're just going to walk forward, sir. Easy does it,' Groat whispered urgently. ‘That's it. Stop here.'

‘Look,' said Moist, ‘all that stuff... that was just to scare me, right?'

‘You leave it to me, sir,' Groat whispered.

‘But listen, the—' Moist began, and had a mouthful of hood.

‘Let him don the Boots!' the voice went on.

Amazing how you can hear the capital letters, Moist thought, trying not to choke on the cloth.

‘Pair of boots right in front of you, sir,' came Groat's hoarse whisper. ‘Put ‘em on. No problem, sir.'

‘Pff! Yes, but listen—'

‘The boots, sir, please!'

Moist removed his shoes, very clumsily, and slid his feet into the invisible boots. They turned out to be as heavy as lead.

‘The Walk of the Unfranked Man is Heavy,' the booming voice intoned. ‘Let him continue!'

Moist took another step forward, trod on something which rolled, stumbled headlong and felt a stab of agony as his shins hit metal.

‘Postmen,' the booming voice demanded again, ‘what is the First Oath?'

Voices sang out from the darkness, in chorus: ‘ Strewth, would you bleedin' credit it? Toys, prams, garden tools... they don't care what they leaves out on the path on these dark mornings !'

‘Did the Unfranked Man cry out?' the voice said.

I think I've broken my chin, Moist thought, as Groat dragged him to his feet. I think I've broken my chin ! The old man hissed: ‘Well done, sir,' and then raised his voice to add for the benefit of the unseen watchers: ‘He crydeth out not, Worshipful Master, but was resolute!'

‘Then give unto him the Bag!' boomed the distant voice. Moist was beginning to loathe it.

Unseen hands put a strap round Moist's neck. When they let go, the weight on it bent him double.

‘The Postman's Bag is Heavy, but soon it shall be Light!' echoed off the walls. No one had said anything about pain, Moist thought. Well, actually they had, but they didn't say they meant it—

‘On we go, sir,' Groat urged, invisible at his side. ‘This is the Postman's Walk, remember!'

Moist edged forward, very carefully, and felt something rattle away.

‘He trod not upon the Roller Skate, Worshipful Master!' Groat reported to the invisible watchers.

Moist, aching but heartened, tried two more hesitant steps, and there was another rattle as something bounced off his boot.

‘The Carelessly Abandoned Beer Bottle impeded him not!' Groat yelled triumphantly.

Emboldened, Moist essayed a further step, trod on something slippery, and felt his foot head off and up without him. He landed heavily on his back, his head thumping on the floor. He was sure he heard his own skull crack.

‘Postmen, what is the Second Oath?' the echoing voice commanded.

‘ Dogs! I tell you, there's no such thing as a good one! If they don't bite they all crap! It's as bad as stepping on machine oil !'

Moist got to his knees, head spinning.

‘That's right, that's right, you keeps goin'!' hissed Groat, grabbing his elbow. ‘You get through, come rain or shine!' He lowered his voice even further. ‘Remember what it says on the building!'

‘Mrs Cake?' Moist mumbled, and then thought: was it rain or snow? Or sleet? He heard movement and hunched over the heavy bag as the water drenched him and an over-enthusiastic bucket bounced off his head.

Rain, then. He straightened up just in time to feel biting coldness slither down the back of the neck, and nearly screamed.

‘That was ice cubes,' Groat whispered. ‘Got ‘em from the mortuary but don't you worry, sir, they was hardly used... best we can do for snow, this time of year. Sorry! Don't you worry about a thing, sir!'

‘Let the Mail be tested!' bellowed the all-commanding voice.

Groat's hand plunged into the bag while Moist staggered in a circle, and he raised a letter triumphantly.

‘I, probationary Senior— Oh, excuse me just a tick, Worshipful Master...' Moist felt his head being pulled down to the level of Groat's mouth, and the old man whispered: ‘Was that probationary or full Senior Postman, sir?'

‘What? Oh, full, yes, full!' said Moist, as iced water filled his shoes. ‘Definitely!'

‘I, Senior Postman Groat, do declare the mail to be as dry as a bone, Worshipful Master!' shouted Groat triumphantly.

This time the cracked voice of authority held a hint of gleeful menace.

‘ Then let him... deliver it !

In the stifling gloom of the hood, Moist's sense of danger barred the door and hid in the cellar. This was where the unseen chanters leaned forward. This was where it stopped being a game.

‘I haven't actually written anything down, mark you,' he began, swaying.

‘Careful now, careful,' hissed Groat, ignoring him. ‘Nearly there! There's a door right in front of you, there's a letter box— Could he take a breather, Worshipful Master? He caught his head a nasty crack—'