205. The Planter Takes a Wife

205. The Planter Takes a Wife  

Never before had I seen my father looking worried. As I have said before, he thinks it is best to let things flow,  or, I have sometimes suspected, to let people think he never does anything but let things flow and then do them surreptitiously. This time it was different. He didn’t seem to know what to do about Uncle Richearth and Mathilde’s plans. Or even if he should do something about them or not. But unlike my dad, I am a worrywart, and was anxious to know what he was thinking.

As we walked back home, he was  quiet, but once we were back at the palace, and just before we entered its grounds, he said, “Arley, who do you think is crazier? Your uncle Richearth or your Uncle Wildgale?”

“Uncle Richearth sometimes seems much crazier,” I said.

“Right,” said my father. “You’ve said it as it is. He seems crazier but he might not be, though he does make more noise. What do you think, Ces?” said Dad, turning to consult Cespuglio, who was about to vanish among the oleanders.

“Me? I don’t think either of them is crazy,” said Ces in his deep voice, after coughing a little. “I think Uncle Rich likes to have fun and that is tough on Uncle Wild’s nerves because he is mostly taciturn and rarely playful. But they say itch mites don’t bite if you shoo them.”

“Now, boys, would either of you, or both, bust this wedding, like Wildie says should be done?”

“I need to do research before I judge,” I said.

“The only thing I would do,” said Ces,  “is keep Kevin, the jester, occupied somewhere else. One June he and Uncle Richearth went to the mortal world on holiday and their joint efforts  almost floored Uncle Wild.”

“Oh, heck!” cried Dad. “I remeber that time! Your grandfather had to come out of his haven to fix things. The man was rabid with liver disease for months. He almost exiled Kevin forever. I don’t think he even knows Kevin is back. I’m glad you said that, Ces. I will get Kevs out of the way before he gets any ideas. What have you heard out there in the bushes, Ces?”

“Nothing yet. I can’t say for sure, but I would just wait and see which way the wind blows, I think.”

“The wind? You mean Wildie? I always have the bothersome notion that one day he will get fed up with Rich and be the one to cut his head off with a scythe. I hate to have this idea, but I do.”

“No, that  won’t happen,” Ces assured Dad. “Uncle Val would never do that if he hasn´t done it already and he’s never even been close.”

“They shove each other around a little and that’s it, isn’t it?” said Dad looking a little happier. “Fraternal spats.”

I remebered how they had jumped at each other’s throat outside the monastery and how Mum had stopped that quarrel with her extra-large travelling cosmetic bag.

“Val would never do anything like cut off Richie’s head to prevent this wedding and continue eating crumblies would he? Are they good? The crumblies?”

“Crunchies,” I corrected.

“They’re  not something one would kill for, are they?”

“I sure hope not,” I said. “In any case, I don’t think Uncle Val eats them because they are that good. I think he just needs to destroy something.”

“Oh, heck!” said Dad. And he rushed off to send Kevin on a wild goose hunt.

Ces shrugged before he vanished among the oleanders and I went directly to see Michael O’Toora and warn him that his Halloween party was going to be crashed. That´s what friends are for, isn’t it? So I told him the whole story. Every bit I knew of it.

“Thank you for telling me,” said Michael, obviously trying not to bite his nails in anxiety, “but I already know something about all this. Ula came to ask if she could use my party for her purposes. It’s not easy to  say no to that woman.”

“But did you?”

“Of course he didn’t. Gentlemen don’t say no to polite ladies unless they really have to. But if I were you, Arley,” said Don Alonso, “it would be the younger lady I would keep an eye on. She came here to warn us before her mother came to ask. Even dressed as a warrior woman, she looks sweet as sugar cake. But why would she tell on her mother? I suggest you look into what she’s up to.” 

He didn’t have to say more. I went off to find Mathilde, wondering if it would be correct of me to say I wanted to know her intentions. No it wouldn’t, would it? It would be impertinent.

My crystal ball told me Mathilde and her mother were lodged in Uncle Richearth’s house. I got there in a flash, but Mathilde had left  also in a flash just before I arrived. It was Uncle Rich who received me and told me she and her mum had gone off to select the wedding invitations. 

He was in a mood to speak instead of asking questions which is what he usually does. And that is what he did as we strolled along the arcade that led from the gate through the park to his temple-like home. It rains frequently here, soft, plant-friendly rain, and that is why there is a covered gallery over a path that leads to the house and then encircles it.  

“I’m just back from Valhalla,” he said. “I went there to see Wolfie.  Wolfie is Mathilde’s father.  Aunt Cybela said I had to speak to him before marrying his daughter. That would be the proper thing to do. A grand place, Arley, that Valhalla is. But not for me. When I got to the gate, the first thing I was asked is how many kings I had brought with me. I said none. Not even myself. I’m king of my household, my home is my castle and all that jazz, but I don’t think they would understand that. Of course I could have visited with a grand entourage. I could have gone accompanied by my brothers and brother-in-law, dressed in state and with pipers piping, fifers fifing and drummers drumming. Maybe even asked your grandpa to crawl out of his hole to support me. But I went as my plainest self. Dressed in a white suit, like the planter I am.  I went on wing. I didn’t even take a horse. I almost got shot down by some archers.I guess I was invading their air space. I suppose I should have phoned before and made an appointment. Anyways,I asked if I could see Wolfie. He was sitting outside the great hall enjoying the pretty view, which is spectacular,  no denyiny that, mountains and mists and all that invigorating air reeking of conifers, as well as the less pleasant sight and smell of men training for the end of the world. There is this wolf they are convinced they are going to have to fight. And what they do there is thwack each other for practice against this day. I told Wolfie I was there because I wanted to marry Mathilde. He didn’t say no, but he didn’t look too happy about it. He asked me if I cared to take part in the fighting, as if he were asking me to play golf. I’ve had my share of tiffs  with jealous husbands, Arley. Gentlemanly duels and all. It’s a miracle I’m still in one piece. But fighting isn’t my sport. I´m a farmer, Arley."

Suddenly, Uncle Rich burst into song. 

"I am a tiller of the soil, this is as plain as day, and in my dealings there's no malice!"

His splendid voice thundered these words of a duet from the operetta Luisa Fernanda and they resounded in the fields, resulting in the sudden appearance of a dozen trees overloaded  with pomegranates.  

"What I do for exercise is walk. Mostly in my fields, singing. I don’t even really work like other farmers do, tilling the soil and such, that happens by itself when I promenade. How could I explain this to Wolfie without sounding judgemental and offensive? What if they had called me a d*** pacifist and kicked me out of there? So I asked him if I could see the inside of that proud hall instead and he showed me the place.There were these naked women cleaning the hall up or whatever. When I say up, I mean flying above polishing solid gold shields that decorate the ceiling. Seeing these ladies, I felt like a prude next to these people. They offered me mead and I took some. It´s supposed to be the best in any world and probably may be. I know Odin only drinks wine, so I decided I had to remember to send these people the best from my cellars. And I just have, tons of it. Enough for all of them to celebrate the engagement till they pass out flat. That should make me a little more popular with Wolfie, no? If he remembers anything once he is conscious again. Wolfie didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. In fact all he said was there was no saying no to Ula, and I guess that meant he acquiesced. I made it very clear to Ula from the first minute that my father would kill me or die of a heart attack himself  if I went to live at Valhalla. So my one condition was that Mathilde and I had to live here. Mathilde said she would love that and Ula agreed. I didn’t say a word of this to Wolfie and he didn’t ask, so I saw no reason to. I don’t think he will miss Mathilde much anyway. She was absent for centuries and I don’t know, Arley, but if I had a daughter and she suddenly disappeared, I wouln’t leave a stone unturned searching for her. You can say maybe they knew where she was, but what did they think she would do there? Just keep, like fruit in a fridge? We´re kind of different, that’s all I am saying. You know what I am going to do now? I’m going to invite you to have lunch in New York. It´s late for breakfast. I’m going to buy Mathilde the best trousseau ever. You can help me pick things out. I told her to go buy everything she needed but Ula said that was a  waste of money. I don’t want my wife to run around our house dressed in armour. Or to stroll out in our fields gathering tomatoes for a salad stark naked before all the pickers. Elegance is important, Arley. Like the fine arts. Never disdain Greek vases. They're a thing of beauty. And therefore a joy forever. I’m going to buy my wife everything that would make any woman happy. Because I can afford to, and because I like to make people happy, including myself.”

“What about me?” said Alpin. “Why don’t you make me happy inviting me to lunch in New York too, big spender?”

He appeared out of nowhere accusing me of slacking on the job and saying I couldn’t go off to New York with Richearth unless he went too. I was about to decline Uncle’s Rich’s invitation so I could tend to Alpin when Uncle Rich counted to ten and then made the invitation extensive to my friend.