His Majesty Requests
by Mark Dalligan © 2007
Emily and Frank had both fallen asleep, unfinished G&T on the small white table between them. They were the only tourists on board, the others choosing to spend the day on the island. The movement of the cruise ship gently turned the melting ice in their glasses.
The retired car dealer felt someone shake his shoulder. Reluctantly his eyes opened on an elderly man in a white surgical coat , silhouetted against the sun.
"Can I help you, Mr....?"
"Doctor. Doctor Bones." The medical man held out a pale, thin hand.
"Sorry Doc," Frank pulled himself from the seat. "So, what's up?"
"I'm his Majesty's doctor..…"
"His Majesty! Hey Emmy, we got us Royalty on board!" Frank pumped the other's hand.
Emmy raised her head briefly, and blinked once or twice before falling back into a slumber.
"Late night," Frank said, "takes it out of you at our age, eh! "
Doctor Bones laughed, left hand playing in a pocket.
"So, what can I do for his Highness?"
"His Majesty has been observing you and has come to the conclusion you have above average qualities for a Pollywog."
"A Polywhat? Are you taking a rise out of me!" Frank's face darkened as the temper that alarmed both his wife and his physician rose.
"No, no! His Majesty is from a distant land. A Pollywog is a customary description of someone outside the clan."
"What are those in the clan called? Pollywigs? Pollydoodles?"
"They carry the title 'Shellback'."
"Clear as mud, as my Pappy was fond of saying."
"His Highness would very much like you to join him for lunch, to discuss a possible elevation in rank."
"Well, I don't know..…, a title?" Frank eyed his wife who was snoring gently. "I suppose I could come over now for a quick cocktail? "
"I'm sure that would be in order, but I must take certain medical precautions first."
"Precautions?"
The Doctor pulled a bottle of pink medicine from one pocket of his surgical coat and a small slice of bright blue cake from another. "Natural antiseptics."
"Look Doc, I'm on medication, a whole sweet shop of anti-depressants, blood pressure tablets and statins. How's this little lot going to react with that?"
"I guarantee there will be no effect on your long term wellbeing."
"All this seems unnecessary. Cake first then the goo?"
"Precisely, Mr...?"
"Ford. No relation to the late President, though my Pappy always claimed a connection with the Detroit branch of the family."
"Mr Ford, you have a grasp of etiquette far exceeding most Pollywogs his Majesty has entertained before."
"Too overawed with the Royalty angle eh?" Frank said, tapping the side of his nose, "Well, I'm from a real democracy, not like your mixed up European and African systems. I couldn't give a damn if your boss has blue blood running in his veins, I'll treat him like any other man."
Frank swallowed the cake in one mouthful and upended the bottle. "Revolting crud," he burped "still what tastes foul often does you good."
"This way please," Doctor Bones strode ahead.
"Hey, can't we walk more slowly?" Frank called, perspiration starting to stain his palm tree printed shirt.
"Almost there Mr Ford."
They stopped near the prow of the ship. The sun beat down like a hammer and the car dealer supposed the crew were taking it easy in the air conditioned interior. He just hoped Emmy didn't let herself get burned again, her scratching when that happened never failed to keep him awake at night.
"Now, in just a moment you will be meeting his Majesty," Dr Bones said, "but first the ship's barber will tidy you up a little."
"Look here…!" Frank's words stuck in his throat as a man covered from head to toe in strings of green seaweed emerged from the deck below. He carried the largest open razor the car dealer had ever seen. Just behind him, a fat, whiskery old man followed wearing a sheet for a nappy and a plastic bucket as a sun hat.
"Sweet, the Royal Baby has arrived to greet you," the Doctor laughed.
Frank started to tremble.
Neptune floated on his back alongside the ship, the warm waters soothing his ancient muscles, a grin as dead as a tombstone on his face. The sea god waited patiently for the arc of blood from above that would herald the arrival of lunch.
Bio: Mark Dalligan lives in the tiny village of Steeple in Essex, England. Determined to earn his living writing, he majored in American Literature at Sussex University in the mid-late 70s. Something went wrong and one morning a City banker stared back at him from the shaving mirror. A short while ago he began letting the writer out again on parole. So far this arrangement is working quite well with work taken by a number of on-line publications including Boston Literary Magazine, LitBits, Apollo's Lyre, Bewildering Stories, MicroHorror and Clockwise Cat.