Word Count 500
Hair Today; Gone Tomorrow
(The Tale of Willow Skye Cont’d)
By Sharon Collins
The very first thing ‘abody notices ‘bout the Dungeon-Master is his wolf-hound. And the very first thing ‘a body notices ‘bout his wolf-hound is its moustache, which looks just like the Dungeon-Master’s. Both man and beast sport magnificent moustaches despite their otherwise general rattiness. All the village men and some of the women wish theirs was as nice. Everyone knows the Dungeon-Master combs and waxes his and the hound’s every Sunday afore church. I myself deliver the beeswax. I particularly love deliverin’ to the Castle. The Kitchen-Cook always sends me home with fresh bannocks and butter. She sends two each; I eat three, bein’ a growin’ lad. I pray every Sunday that Jesus snitched a bannock or two in his time, and that Toby never finds out.
Just this last Sunday the priest’s was a yackin’ about them veeney sins and them mortal sins; you know, slothiness and gluttonishness and pride. That last one is the only one I ever heard of ‘afore. I understand how being proud can make ‘abody fall. Showin’ off for Willow Skye, I was danglin’ from a branch sportin’ the mightiest honeycomb! Well, with all that jigglin’, the branch broke, I fell, and you know the rest! Anyway, I was thinkin’ about that comb which got me thinkin’ about the Dungeon-Master combin’ his moustache, and I startin’ lookin’ ‘round for him. He wasn’t there. Missin’ church ain’t allowed; neither is askin’ questions. Toby thwacked me across the pate for my curiousness.
Soon as the final hallelujah, I bolted straight to the castle, right past the Kitchen-Cook. “Widrick! What’s the infernal rush?” she shouted. But I daren’t stop; I had a bad feelin’. I skidded ‘round to the Dungeon-Master’s door, and there I saw it, the most horrible sight! The Dungeon-Master’s dog was lyin’ in the sun lookin’ like a skinned rabbit! His rattiness was all gone, which was a good thing, but his amazing moustache was missin’ too! It was shaved right off! Not botherin’ with knockin’, I busted right in. There was an even awful-er sight and smell waitin’ inside. The Dungeon-Master looked worse than a skinned rabbit; he looked like a bald, skinned rabbit. All about him, messed amongst the rushes was his moustache. Chokin’ on the smell of burnin’ hair, I gasped, “What happened?”
“Pride, Widrick, pride…” is all he said, with the most sorrowful look, as he spun me about and out the door. Back in the kitchen, I learnt the terrible, tragic tale. The Kitchen-Cook told me, “Whiles combin’ and waxin’ his moustache and admirin’ his reflection in the shiny bottom of a pot, he got a little too close to the candle. The long left tail caught fire and burnt up into a stinky corkscrew. With nothin’ to cure his trouble, the Dungeon-Master had to shave the the other half off.”
“How’d the hound lose his?” I asked over a mouthful of bannock and butter. That’s when I learnt ‘bout that other sin, covetin’ I think she called it.