Terry Pratchett - Nation

“That is no way to speak to your grandmother, Daphne,” said her father.

“Daphne? Daphne? What is this ‘Daphne’?” said Her Ladyship. “Ridiculous name. Don’t be silly, Ermintrude. Now, can we get on with things before we get eaten, for goodness’ sake?”

Daphne blushed in anger and embarrassment. “How dare you! Some of these people can speak English!”

“So?”

Daphne took a deep breath, and then her father’s hand was laid gently on her shoulder just as she opened her mouth. She shut it again, letting the rage seethe inside.

“That’s not the way, dear,” he said. “And we must get on.” He left her and shook hands with the bishop. “Ah, Charlie, good to see you. Your pointy hat not here?”

“Lost at sea, old boy. And when I picked up my crosier, it was full of blasted termites! Sorry about the sarong, couldn’t find m’ trousers,” said the bishop, shaking the king’s hand. “Wretched shame about what’s been happening, of course. Bit of a shock all around. Still, it’s not given to us to know the way the ways of Prov — of the Almighty.”

“It was probably an Act of God,” said Daphne.

“Indeed, indeed,” said the bishop, fumbling in his bag.

“Or a miracle,” Daphne went on, defying her grandmother to take her by the ear on her beach. But Grandmother did not take defiance lightly, or at all.

“I shall talk to you later about this wayward behavior, Ermintrude — ” she began, striding forward. But two gentlemen were suddenly in her way.

“Ah, here it is,” said the bishop very loudly, and he straightened up. “Of course we don’t generally carry royal anointing oil out here, but my lads make a coconut oil that keeps cricket bats nice and supple. I hope that will be sufficient.” This was to Mr. Black, who worried him even more than her ladyship.

“That will be fine, Your Grace,” said Mr. Black. “Miss… Daphne, would you be so kind as to ask the islanders if we may use one of these ceremonial stones as a throne?”

Daphne looked at the scattered god stones. They’d gotten rather unnoticed in the past week.

“Mau, can they —?” she began.

“Yes, they can,” said Mau. “But tell them they don’t work.”

It was, according to the history books, the fastest coronation since Bubric the Saxon crowned himself with a very pointy crown on a hill during a thunderstorm, and reigned for one and a half seconds.

Today, a man sat down. He was handed a golden orb and a golden scepter, which the watching islanders approved of because, when you got right down to it, a scepter was just a shiny club. Mau was happy with his fish spear, but in their hearts the islanders knew that a chief should have a really big club. Later on, some of them had had a go with it, however, and considered it a bit cumbersome for a real fight. They found it far more interesting than the crown, which sparkled in the sunlight but didn’t do anything useful. But because of it, and after a certain amount of talking, a man stood up who ruled so many places on the planet that mapmakers often ran out of red ink.

At this point the men in black produced some small versions of the trouserman flag, raised them enthusiastically, and shouted: “Hurrah.”

“I’d like the crown back now, please, Your Majesty,” said Mr. Black quickly. “I will give you a receipt, of course.”

“Oh, it will all be so much better when we are crowned properly in London,” said Grandmother. “Really this is just for — ”

“You will be silent, woman,” said the king without raising his voice.

For a moment Daphne thought she was the only one to have heard. Grandmother hadn’t, because she still went on talking. And then her ears caught up with her tongue, and couldn’t believe their eyes.

“What did you say?” she managed.

“Ah, you’ve got it right at last, Mother,” said the king. “I’m me, not us. I am I, not we. One pair of buttocks on the throne, one head in the crown. You, on the other hand, are a sharp-tongued harridan with the manners of a fox and don’t interrupt me when I’m talking! How dare you insult our hosts! And before you utter a word, contemplate this: You treasure your elevation above what you call the lower classes, whom I’ve always found to be pretty decent people once they’ve had a chance to have a bath. Well, I am king, you see — king — and the very notion of nobility that you cling to like grim death means that you will not answer me back. You will, however, act with grace and gratitude during the remainder of our stay in this place. Who knows, it may speak to you as it has spoken to me. And if you are even now putting together a scathing remark, let me point out for your lengthy consideration the wonderful and highly advisable option of silence. That is a command!”

The king, breathing a little heavily, nodded to the leader of the Gentlemen of Last Resort.

“That was all right, wasn’t it?” he said to the Gentlemen of Last Resort. Grandmother was simply staring at nothing.

“Of course, sire. You are king, after all,” murmured Mr. Black.

“’Scuse me, miss,” said a voice behind Daphne. “Are you Miss Ermintrude?”

She turned to see who’d spoken. One of the boats had returned and picked up more of the crew, and now she was staring at a small man in badly fitting clothes. They had clearly belonged to someone who had been happy to get rid of them.

“Cookie?”

He beamed. “Told you my coffin’d keep me alive, miss!”

“Papa, this is Cookie, who was a great friend to me on the Judy. Cookie, this is my father. He’s king.”

“That’s nice,” said Cookie.

“Coffin?” said the king, looking bewildered again.

“I told you about him, Papa. Remember? The pockets? The mast and shroud? The tiny inflatable billiard table?”

“Oh, that coffin! My word. How long were you at sea, Mr. Cookie?”

“Two weeks, sir. My little stove ran out after the first week, so I made do with biscuits, mint cake, and plankton until I fetched up on an island,” said the cook.

“Plankton?” said Daphne.

“Strained it through my beard, miss. I thought, well, whales live on it, so why not me?” He reached into his pocket and produced a grubby piece of paper. “Funny little island I landed on, too. Had the name on a brass plate nailed to a tree. I writ it down — look.”

The king and his daughter read, in smudged pencil, Mrs. Ethel J. Bundy’s Birthday Island.

“It really exists!” Daphne yelled.

“Jolly well done,” said the king. “Do tell us all about it over dinner. Now, if you will excuse for me a moment, I have to reign.” King Henry the Ninth rubbed his hands together. “Now, what else… ah, yes. Charlie, do you want to be an archbishop?”

The Rt. Rev. Topleigh, who was packing his bag again, waved his hands wildly, a look of sudden dread on his face. “No, thank you, Henry!”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes, thank you. They’d make me wear shoes. Love it down here among the islands!”

“Ah, then you choose the big sea to a big see,” said the king, in that slow, plummy voice people use when they are committing a really bad pun.

Nobody laughed. Even Daphne, who loved her father very much, could do no better than a sickly grin. Then her father did something that no one, not even a king, should do. He tried to explain. “Perhaps you all didn’t notice the pun or play on words?” he said, sounding a little hurt. “I deliberately confused ‘a big sea,’ that’s with an a, with ‘a big see,’ with two es, meaning the area that comes under the jurisdiction of an archbishop.”

“Technically that would be a province, sir,” said Mr. Black gravely. “Bishops have sees.”

“Although an archbishop is, strictly speaking, bishop of his home see,” said Mr. Red thoughtfully. “That’s why the archbishop of Canterbury is also the bishop of Canterbury. But that would be a small see, and therefore would not work for the purposes of humor.”