On Each Full Moon
Mildred Ulrich, Midget’s grandmother, was considered one of the wisest people to ever live. Not only did she knit body armour for her grandson when he became the executive chef of Viking Horde number 12, but she was also known for her prognostications. And thus she acquired the nick name the ‘Oracle of Lapland.’
Even before Midget joined the Viking horde on their very first mission to India, each chieftain of a horde sought an audience with her where they would pose basically the same questions.
“Oh Oracle of Lapland,” they would begin bowing low, throwing money into her tin, which was an old cigarette can that had washed up on the shore of Swedonia, before it was renamed Sweden because the Swedish kept forgetting the name of their country, while Mildred sat crossed legged outside her cave in the scared mountain of Or, depending upon the weather. They would continue with their request once she had counted the money and determined it was enough to pay her rent or groceries for the upcoming week. “Oh Oracle of Lapland. I and my horde will be sailing tomorrow at dawn for who knows where, and before we leave I need to know whether or not I’m going to come back alive and whether where I’m going is a fool’s errand.”
Before we go any further, there are a few things we need to understand about Mildred. Firstly, she was a stickler for grammar, whether she was being addressed in Laplandese or Sweddoniaese or the newfangled language of Old English. Therefore, she cringed when she heard the chief begin his question in that manner, I and my horde. She of course corrected him pointing to the tin can where he had to put some money as a punishment for speaking incorrect grammar.
“Well,” began Mildred as she always did, “it depends. As far as the first question, do you have your will and powers of attorney in order and secondly, I have no idea where you’re going so I can’t tell you whether it’s a fool’s errand or not, though I believe it might be only because you don’t know what time of day it is.”
“Yes I do,” replied the chief in question feeling he had enough berating from a woman who hadn’t graduated high school, where as he received his doctorate in mechanical engineering from the University of Padua. “It’s over the hill time,” he continued.
“Exactly what I thought,” Mildred replied, spitting out a piece of reindeer meat she had been chewing on overnight. The chief on this occasion was King Benedict whose only claim to fame was that on one of their missions, this time to Whiteland which was later renamed Greenland, Midget who went with his group while he was apprenticing, came up with a dish and when asked what he called it very thoughtfully replied, “Eggs Benedict.” Other than that, King Benedict has been wisely forgotten in the pages of Viking history.
“Why don’t you come back later this evening,” Mildred told Benedict, “because the moon will be up and on each full moon my powers grow stronger, and I will be able to see through your crap and let you know where it is you’re going in the first place. Then I will be able to tell whether it’s a fool’s errand or not.”
King Benedict wasn’t quite sure whether he had had quite enough of Mildred, or whether he should return and listen to her drivel. He wisely decided on the latter.
When the sun had finally gone to sleep behind yonder hill, King Benedict returned carrying a torch which looked like it was about to explode. Mildred was sitting outside her cave looking up at the full moon and was about to say something profound to the king, but then noticed the torch he was carrying looked as if it was going to engulf both of them in flames. Mildred told him to either throw the torch away, or come back once the torch had been extinguished or if he had gone up in flames. And if so then there would be no reason for him to return because he wasn’t going anywhere. The king thought for a second, but was hurried along when his fingers started burning. So he threw the torch away without much consideration for direction, as long as it was away from either of them. But King Benedict wasn’t very bright, even though he had a PhD in mechanical engineering from the University of Padua. He forgot that standing behind him were some of the other chiefs who had come there to seek guidance from the Oracle of Lapland. Suddenly there was a loud bang and a scream and everyone in the line suddenly realised that Hamlet the Prince of Denmark was now engulfed in flames. Some did a quick sketch of the trauma, while others moved away from him, but none called the ambulance or fire brigade. Mildred could care less. To her it was one person less in line for the throne so that her grandson could climb the ladder a little quicker. Soon though the flames went out as they were devoid of any combustible material and the Prince of Denmark was now a pile of ash.
The people behind him in line moved up one but paid some deference to him by not kicking the ash. “Well oh Oracle of Lapland, the moon is full so what do you think?”
“Well Curt,” she began.
“No this isn’t Curt,” said Benedict.
“Oh sorry. I can’t see well in the dark. Oh Benedict. I think where you’re going even though you do not know where you’re going, is going to be an adventure you will be able to relate to your grandchildren for years to come.”
“What about the first part?” he reminded her.
“I just told you,” she said, “I like brevity. I rolled it all in one. You will be retuning so there’s no need for your will and powers of attorney. Go have fun, send photos often,” and with that King Benedict left with his spirits soaring. But that was the last time anyone in Vikingland ever saw him again.
Years later when another horde returned, they had found a cemetery in Northern France in a place called Calais where there were many gravestones with the names of the horde that had gone out on adventure led by King Benedict. They had been slaughtered by the Belgians who were on their forever quest looking for a language to call their own.