The Second-Best Archer in the Forest: Hold My Bird

Comedy Short: Carnival Fleur De Floomp

“I’m bored, squire. Do you know any riddles?” Dale asked.

He leaned against a brick building while villagers hurried past carrying barrels, hammering together wooden stalls, and stringing colorful banners.

“Not many, sir,” the squire said. “My parents weren’t learned folks and when they were murder—”

“Oh, here we go again. If this ends with one of your childhood life lessons, I’m leaving.” Dale watched two men wrestle a wagon piled high with pumpkins into the square. “What’s with all the commotion today?”

“It’s the carnival, sir. I thought you knew?”

Dale’s eyes widened. “The Fleur de Floomp?”

“Yes, the Fleur de Floomp.”

“I love the Fleur de Floomp. Haven’t missed one in years.”

“Weren’t you escorted out of the last one?”

“Eh, a minor incident with a duck vendor. Still counts.”

*****

By nightfall, the village square had transformed. Lanterns cast warm pools of light across rows of painted stalls. Fiddlers played while children darted between merchants carrying toy swords. Roasting meat, cinnamon cakes, and wood smoke filled the air.

“I’m giddy, squire,” Dale said. “The carnival makes me feel alive. Tell me, do you have anything that brings you such joy?”

“Well, actually when I was si—”

“Ah! The duck stall. Come along.”

“Fresh duck here! Fresh duck!” the vendor cried.

Dale stepped forward. “One duck.”

The vendor reached for the first bird on the spit.

“Halt.”

The vendor paused.

Dale pointed to the back of the spit. “That one.”

“They’re all the same, sir.”

“This is either your first Fleur de Floomp or you’ve confused me with a tourist who fell off the turnip cart.”

The merchant stared. “Dale, I’ve worked this stall for twelve years. You were engaged to my sister.”

Dale squinted. “Ah, yes. Mark, is it?”

“Steven.”

“Right. Must be the soot and duck fat. She doing well?”

“Married a miller. Two kids. Quite happy.”

Dale leaned toward the squire. “Oof. A miller? Talk about a downgrade.”

“Poor girl,” the squire said.

Dale pointed. “Well, I’m sure things will turn around for her soon. Or not. Either way. Duck. Back row. Plumper the better.”

The vendor shook his head and handed Dale the duck.

Dale inspected it from every angle before taking a satisfied bite. “Mmm. Very rich. Well done, Mark.”

*****

They pivoted away, wandering deeper into the Fleur de Floomp. Laughter spilled from the ale tents. Every few yards a barker tried to tempt the crowd with a prize.

“Strike the bell and win a tunic!”

“Topple the cups for a silver goblet!”

“Test your strength!”

They rounded the next corner when a booming voice emerged. “Step right up to the Rings of Fortune! Attempt a shot even Robin Hood himself couldn’t pull off!”

Dale stopped abruptly, the squire bumping into him. “What did he say?”

“Rings of fortune?”

“Not that,” Dale said. “You there, carnival peasant. What’s this about Robin Hood?”

The man placed two hands on the booth table. “The outlaw tried about an hour ago. Hit the first two, missed the third.”

Dale smiled. “At last, our hero is flawed. Hold my bird.” He thrust the half-eaten duck into the squire’s hand. “What are the rules?”

The man gestured toward three iron rings suspended from ropes. Each hung farther away than the last, the nearest a foot wide, the final hardly larger than a walnut. “Three arrows. Send one through each ring. Miss a shot and the game is over.”

Dale rolled his shoulder and nocked an arrow. The first ring he cleared with ease. “Ha! Take that gutter dog.”

The man looked confused. The squire dismissed it with a head shake.

The second arrow clipped the iron and sent the ring spinning, but counted.

The third arrow went wide, embedding itself in the back platform.

“Damn!” Dale shouted.

“I’m sure it was just the duck grease, sir,” the squire said.

“Yes, of course. That and the bent arrows from this charlatan.” Dale slammed another coin on the table. “Again.”

Hours later, the fiddlers were packing up and the lanterns had burned low. Dale was exhausted, and his coin purse held a single remaining copper.

The squire finally pulled him away from the game.

“You know perfectly well that last arrow went through,” Dale said. “It’s the shadows playing tricks on our eyes.”

“Certainly, sir.”

As they walked away, they passed a small tent. A sign read: Fortunes - One Copper. An old woman sat inside, beyond a curtain of beads. It caught Dale’s eye. “Well, squire. This day couldn’t get any worse. Let’s see what else fate has planned.”

Dale sat across from the woman and placed his final copper on the table. She took his hand and closed her eyes. Dale grimaced, then mouthed toward the squire, “Get me a wet towel.”

She spoke:

“He boasts of skill but misses the mark,
He squanders his coin till the square grows dark.
A proud, blind creature of foolish habit,
What am I, sir? A mule or a rabbit?”

Dale rolled his eyes. “Illuminating. And I thought you were bad at riddles, squire.”

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Dale still won’t.

See you soon,

—Ricky C.

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