Chickadee: A Farce

By: Pylades Posted on: May 12, 2004

(Author's note: Resemblance of figures in this farce to any persons living, dead, or immortal is purely coincidental.)

Before they may be brought to light by certain other nameless parties, and before even you, my gentle reader, may deign to confer certain allegations of instability upon my comely head, I refute, once and for the rest of this tale, any thought you might have that I am in any way deranged, insane, or under the effects of any mind-altering drug. The following is a recounting of events of which I, Pylades, being of sound mind and body, will later send a copy to the Senate of Cyrene and to the courts, that all who are curious about the matter might take it up with them. If this evidence proves unworthy, I beg you feel free to question on any point of this tale's veracity the four principle players in the plot; namely myself, a Firefly, the Snowstorm, and the Moon.

The poet Pylades sat one night in a tree above a section of the imperial gardens of Cyrene frequented by love-struck poets, aspiring questers and molting peacocks, which three sorts of creatures are fairly well indistinguishable, especially in the middle of a blizzard.

The night was clear and cold, and Pylades sat in this tree and wondered about a lass in Ashtan, wondering if she was thinking of him in whatever tree she happened to be in at the time, and wondering likewise if somewhere in the bowels of the earth the roots of this tree and that were mingling in a loving embrace. Suddenly feeling that she was not too far away from him, he was surprised at how pleasant the thought was, how warming, on such a cool winter night.

Aye, and even more surprised was he to find that neither the feeling of someone being nigh nor the feeling of warmth was emanating from his reflections of affection for said distant lass, but rather from one who was quite nearby, standing near him in the branches of the tree: the Moon, in fact, resplendent in her glowing robes.

"My love," replied the poet, "First of all, I wish you wouldn't call me "little chickadee." It is true I sit in trees from time to time, and sing, but I am neither little, nor do I have wings to take me soaring through the clouds."

"My love," replied the poet, "Second of all, if I do sit in trees, it is only because I have no wings to take me soaring through the clouds to follow you. You accuse me of inconstancy, but it's you, my dearest lass, who always fly away from me and make me wait here in this tree until you should return. Always moving, coming, going, always mutable woman, you! And that I've never been unfaithful to you yet, I make my solemn vow."

The Moon cried, "Solemn vow! Now, my Pylades, what is this? You've never sworn by gods before: what gods swear you by? Speak!"

"By Priaps, Lord of gardens, and the Lady Peacock Queen. And this, my lass, is the grandest oath that there has ever been."

Thus the poet testified, and the Moon nodded her approbation. A bee buzzed past and caused the lass to sneeze with a sprinkling of pollen from its pollen-pot.

"My apologies, m'lady." Said the Bee, who may have been a greater player in the plot than it here seems, for the Moon then shrieked--

"Ay, me! My silver powdered face, now marred with snot, doth cease to shine as once was its wont. Pylades, my little Chickadee, do wait on here for me, that I may retire to my heavenly abode and powder up. When I return, you shall have me for yourself, and I shall be yours as you have promised to be mine."

"Don't call me Chickadee," spake Pylades to the Moon as she alighted to heaven.

The Moon of Heaven wiped the snot from her upper lip and rubbed it on a portion of the firmament where still today we see a dim patch of milky white, right below the right knee of the celestial archer. And she proceeded not to the ladies' room, as she had sworn, o fickle creature, but to the Palace of the Peacock Queen herself.

"O Queen, have you but heard, just recently, that Pylades the inconstant, he who no god has yet allowed to malign their name with false oaths, now dares to swear his faithfulness to me by you? Send your daughter, fair Princess Firefly, out to the garden now to test him of his oath, and punish him in the courts of law as an adulterer and perjurer if he lays but one hand on her!"

The Queen nodded her head in approbation and shed a feather, which the Moon hastily stole up and ran exultantly to the Fletcher while comely Princess Firefly strolled barefoot along the garden floor, her robes sheer and cinched nicely about her waist, her hair done up in fetching style, her eyes glistening in the night, to the tree in which the love-struck poet, or the aspiring quester, sat primping for his upcoming assignation.

"Why, Pylades," called the Firefly up the trunk of the tree, "How pretty you look with your hair all in curls. Nigh every night I've wondered at you from within the confines of a small glass jar. Now, to see you, close and real, leaves me near to fainting. Come down, Pylades, and let me see you more closely."

"Why, Firefly," replied the poet, "If the sight of me from here has got you hot and about to faint, surely if I were to come down by you, you may die. And I couldn't have that, nor could the little lad who counts on you to save him from ridicule by his friends."

"Why, Pylades," Called the Firefly up the tree, "Come down, and I will make it worth your while. My Mother, you know, is the Queen of Peacocks, and I am safeguarding her feathers for her while she sleeps. Come down, and I shall pluck as many as you'd want, and give them to you, that you may excel the gods in living honor."

"Why, Firefly," replied the poet, "A naughty thing you are, to hold your mother's trust in such low esteem. And besides, if I were to run around the city delivering feathers until I were a distinguished being, I should certainly be a distinguished being: without any legs left to speak of. "I require not this glory of yours"*. "I love my legs more, alas, I love my legs more."*"

"Why, Pylades," tried the Firefly again, "Come down, my dear, I cannot live without you. But come down, and you may have your way with me... all spoils will be yours for climbing down and touching me."

Replied the poet: "I'll be right down."

But when Pylades swung down from the tree, all that he could see was a young quester running off, exultant, with a jar. The poet sighed, a love-worn sigh, and returned to his branchy perch.

The Moon clenched her teeth to see her plan had failed, and, from high above, retreated to the northern reaches, to the winter home of Priaps, garden Lord.

"O Lord, have you but heard, just recently, that Pylades the inconstant, he who no god has yet allowed to malign their name with false oaths, now dares to swear his faithfulness to me by you? Send your daughter, fair Princess Snowstorm, out to the garden now to test him of his oath, and punish him in the courts of law as an adulterer and perjurer if he lays but one hand on her!"

The snow came down in irregular flurries, then, as the Snowstorm directed her icy tread towards the garden by her Father's decree. Billowing in respect to her great grey cloaks, her face flashed like lightning when she smiled and rumbled with thunder when she frowned. Entering the garden, the Snowstorm wrapped her cloak around the eyes of a young quester, who, terrified of the blinding white, teleported by the power of the gods, the jar slipping out of his grasp and shattering on the ground.

The lovestruck poet, sighing in the tree, looked up as he heard the sound of the shattering glass, but all he could see was the glory of Princess Snowstorm. Her beauty enveloped his eyes, making him blind to the rest of the world.

"Pylades," spake the Snowstorm, "Many times have I walked through this garden, covering my Father's land in white and draping the trees with shining icicles to catch the winter sun. But now I've come not for that reason alone, but by rumor that you were here, and a lovely sight to see. The rumors are not unfounded, for a lad, and a mortal, not too shabby. Come and let me blow your hair about fetchingly, let me garland it in white and make you a fit winter prince to share a winter princess' bed."

"Snowstorm," replied the poet, "Your beauty takes my breath away. But it is your coldness that forbids that I regain it! I might be pleased to take you to your bed, if I did not believe that if I should try you it would make that bit of me you crave freeze through and snap off. Do come back in the summertime, when the heat oppresses my limbs and keeps me lounging in the baths. Then I shall find glad relief in plowing your cool furrows. Until then, I am afraid I may touch you not."

Her plan thus foiled, the Snowstorm began to rage. And as the Snowstorm raged about our poet, he curled himself into a ball in a crook of the swaying tree and wrapped his coat about his knees.

"Robin--" he heard a gentle voice above him declare.

"Huh?" he asked.

"Cardinal--"

"What?"

"Um... oh, yes... Chickadee!"

"Ah! ... Don't call me Chickadee. Where are you hiding, my love?"

"Here! Do you not see my radiant light?"

The poet peered through the whirling white, and, sure enough, did see a floating light descending toward him. He opened his coat and invited the Firefly into his amorous embrace, screwing her magnificently, screwing himself utterly, utterly taken in by the ploy of the Snowstorm, the Firefly, and the Moon.

And now, my gentle reader, you have been made witness to a solemn oath taken and a solemn oath broken by treachery and deceit. Another solemn oath may you now witness: that these words are nothing but truth, that these are the words I shall stand by as I face the Senate in the Courts on a count of Adultery, and one of Perjury.

And now that you're a witness to all these things, my reader, I call you into court on my behalf. Prepare to speak well on the themes I've laid out for you. My fate rests in your hands. Scarlatti go with you-- and all the Muses!

--

* Pylades here grows poetic and in his fervor quotes or paraphrases several ancient poets.