Fancie’S Followers

By Jannet Ridener

I dont know a lot about too much of anything. Never did really used to think I did, but I didnt.

A Midsummer Nights Dream, the classic Shakespearean tale of intricate sylvan misadventures, provides the inspiration for this contemporary retelling, shaped with a more modern sensibility.

Stalled party plans, religious services, romance, and a midlife crisis lead earnest people into a forest for escape, blessings, notice, and solace. Incarnate deities take too much interest in the seekers lives for no better reason than the mismanagement of their own affairs and instigate the unintentional but escalating deterioration of matters for the bewildered mortals. Theres no tree too tall, or insect so small, that cant add more nonsense to the foolishness transpiring.

These are mysterious circumstances for people who didnt know that miracles are real, are as old as the universe, and will continue in some form or another, somewhere or another, until the end of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462008285

Jannet Ridener

Jannet Ridener has an abiding fascination with mythology and religious ideologies; she views Shakespeare from the inexpert perspective of a bruised and jostled groundling. Jannet has multiple sclerosis, and she lives in Indianapolis, Indiana, with her mother, her MS-afflicted sister, a Great Dane, a miniature poodle, three cats, and two rats.

Book preview

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

The Trappings of Authority

Chapter Two

Ladybugs Bite

Chapter Three

Incense and Old Toilets

Chapter Four

No Venison for Me, Thank You

Chapter Five

The Catapult That Could Have Been

Chapter Six

The Suit Makes the Man

Chapter 7

Odd

Chapter 8

Werewolves of Minerva

Chapter 9

Friday Nights Used To Be Date Nights

Chapter 10

Hail Fellow—Well Met

Chapter 11

Mudslide Mix

Chapter 12

Places to Be, or Not to Be

Chapter 13

Incomprehensible Explicables

Chapter 14

Loverrhea

Chapter 15

My Mistake

Chapter 16

Fall Fell

Preface

My book is based on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and though it’s my favorite of Shakespeare’s plays, Midsummer always manages to be pushed aside in favor of the man’s more solemn works; it being a flawless composition, I can’t explain why.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my mother, Joyce, and my sister, Julie, for their tireless support.

A special, doubleplusgood thanks to Mike Wiegmann for his computer prowess and keen eye.

Chapter One

The Trappings of Authority

He was, in appearance, a gentleman. Mere men wore boutonnieres and masquerade at weddings; this man flaunted a frothing, crimson orchid on his apricot lapel and offered himself for public review at the corner of Maple and Main. He ignored the stares and squinted in the scorching sunshine; tugging at his elegantly-turned collar, he turned and strode north.

An inconstant wind, freed from a pressure release valve somewhere on the outskirts of Hell, offered no relief for the people struggling on Main Street, and could find nothing better to do with its new-found liberty but convey negligible wisps of white cloud to regions unknown via the magnificent sapphire sky overarching the town of Minerva. The handful of tourists—whose voluntary attendance affirmed a shared and erroneous belief in the need to roam outdoors on humid days in radiant sunshine—and the native Minervanites with legitimate cause to be there, disregarded their once imperative knickknack acquisitions and twice-postponed haircut appointments to step aside as the well-dressed gentleman whipped past. The gentleman overlooked and failed to extend the most cursory of acknowledgements to the significant people in town, and while the snub was noted, his aloofness was forgiven and forgotten, and before he could pass the enormous fiberglass doughnut minding the entrance to Ed and Lola’s Breakfast Nook, the company of spontaneous spectators augmented their numbers with bonus merchants and patrons who abandoned commerce and manners to stray from shops and point.

Routines interrupted and infatuation with the gentleman stirred to cloud wisp heights, the townsfolk released their suppressed appreciation of imagination and accepted their latent aptitude to recognize the enchantment of a crushed paper cup relaxing in the gutter, to ponder the enigma of day sleeping streetlights hanging above their heads, and to note that the always reserved, modest brick buildings that framed the ebb and flow of Main had found expression in the peculiar calm crafted in the gentleman’s passing and echoed the hollow declaration of his footsteps as he tread the blinding white strip of sidewalk toward the center of town. The people opposite the breakfast nook skirted parked cars, parking meters, and each other in an inexplicable urge to join their fellow gawkers on the gentleman’s endorsed side of the street, and the impulse parade that they formed in silent accord at his unsociable, unapproachable back tagged along in fellowship, their modesty forgotten and their shortsightedness conceded as they stumbled into hardship.

The mature oaks and maples that flourished one short block from the origin of the procession offered welcome shade but no reprieve from the stifling air, and most of the unsolicited devotees in the gentleman’s driven fan club suffered a summary dressing-down in the heat and double time march prompted by their indifferent drum major. They struggled, stumbled, and lagged in eccentric exertions, but soon found their trials to be as temporary and rewarding as the route had proven short and the gossip value enduring. While the gentleman’s regal bearing in the inconsequential town of Minerva was already a fact that begged exaggeration, his extraordinary behavior upon reaching the end of the street and entering Bluebell Park assured his subsequent immortality in the pages of vacation journals and recitation of local legend.

The gentleman strode into the park and ascended a gentle hill, then descended and stopped. Without turning to face his winded followers, he halted them all at the top of the hill with a flick of his hand, and they froze and watched him walk to a shady bench. They gasped when he tapped the leg of the bench with the toe of his shoe, and grew faint as he bowed to press his ear against the armrest. The gentleman stood upright and whisked a lemon yellow handkerchief from his breast pocket to scatter the accumulated debris of park life from the wooden slats—to the applause and cheers of the crowd—before sitting. The people watched the gentleman shed his oxblood oxfords and ruby-red socks, and dig his toes into the thick grass. He sat motionless with his eyes closed as a breeze off the ocean ruffled his shiny, sable brown hair. They watched his demeanor of serenity vaporize when he jumped from the bench and threw himself face down, arms outstretched, on the ground.

The gentleman lay still for a moment, then raised his hands and pressed his fingertips to his temples. He fidgeted and wiggled to the crowd’s exultant Ooohs and Ahhhs, rolled onto his back, and pummeled his heels against the defenseless turf. He sat up in a temper with his dark brows knit, stood up with a frown, and stamped his bare feet while the audience trembled in fear, held hands, and for comfort, embraced each other as the gentleman’s baffling rampage continued. They sighed with relief when the gentleman’s trampling ceased, but again gasped when he stripped away his ascot tie (a delicious pistachio ice cream green in color) and tossed it high into the air where ordinary ties and desserts are unknown. The tie fluttered to the ground where the matching cummerbund soon found its way, and where his orange sherbet tinted suit soon followed; he removed his sparkling white shirt and underclothing to add to the jumble, and at last resumed reclining midst the white capped dandelions.

Across the common, behind a screen of hydrangeas exploding with blue pom-pom blooms, Simone Hammon relaxed on a faded, decomposing, five-point quilt that her mother had sewn for her when she was a child. Simone pulled a package from her backpack, peeled the aluminum foil away, and took a generous bite of cake that was leftover from her eighty-sixth birthday party—a party which had lasted long into the night, the night before. She licked the messy butter cream frosting from her gnarled fingers, sighed and smiled, then picked up the pen she had placed on the quilt one minute before, before the yearning for cake became too strong for a person her age to delay and be denied, to describe the unusual Piping Plover sighting she had witnessed in a well-worn notebook. In celebration of documenting the remarkable event, Simone wolfed down the remainder of the cake, brushed the crumbs from the quilt, and wiped her hands on the legs of her jeans before lifting the binoculars again, hoping for another stunning surprise, but anticipating the usual program of pigeons, robins, and sparrows, when she chanced upon a belated birthday gift that she was unaware that she wanted. She was bowled over by her own comfort in accepting and inclination to enjoying.

Simone’s passion for birds had brought her to the park, but the people standing on the hill had caught her attention, and she wondered why so many people would be out on such a sultry day with no holiday to use for an excuse when her original and legitimate ornithological pursuits were reduced to illicit voyeurism upon aiming the binoculars at the crowd’s focus of attention and spotting the casual gentleman. She tore into her backpack and scattered the contents, brandished her cell phone and at length reported the crisis. She mentioned the bird, the cake, and the notebook in a teasing preamble before detailing the man and the nudity, and deigned—against the wishes of the operator that she vacate the area—to remain concealed in the shrubs.

Within seconds, a patrol car was dispatched to the park in the form of a dramatic, black sedan that flaunted arresting insignia on the doors and a siren and flashing red and blue lights on top. It was driven by a capable though less electrifying man who was possessed of all the comprehensive expertise befitting a thirty year veteran of the State Police, and who was selected for this run by his standing as the lone officer on duty: James Weaver.

Sheriff Weaver grimaced as the searing wind from the open windows lashed his face. He squirmed in the car seat and wrested half of a broken pencil from his back pocket and continued to grope for the remainder until the inflexible seat belt across his hips and chest, the throbbing bursitis in his shoulder, and the burning arthritis in his elbow checked his movement. He ground his teeth as he sped to the park and loosened the top plate of his dentures. He removed the teeth and placed them on the seat beside him, mere inches from his well-fitting hat, but still two months away from the set of snug-fitting choppers that the dentist promised; he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. To his recollection, yesterday had been pleasant enough. The drama of Mrs. Weimer having chased her husband down the street with a BB gun notwithstanding, it had been an agreeable day compared with the unpleasantness that had begun after midnight, when the cozy bubble of contentment where he had dwelt for so long, burst and left his ears ringing from comments bewildering, distressing to hear, and hurtful to remember. Twelve hours later, his sinuses remained clogged from repression of tears while the pressure behind his eyes escalated to new pinnacles of dull pain.

Weaver ran his tongue over his bumpy gums and wondered why medical science had yet to include the secret of re-growing teeth to their illustrious roster of miracles and imagined a world where dentists were not needed, where champion tooth fairies blasted protective beams of fluoride from toothbrush wands, and where pink-haired gum elves restrained receding tissue with dental floss lassos. In this realm of make-believe, Weaver was a tooth farmer for fun and to profit all people if the fairy and elf efforts failed. He would use antiquated dentist’s tools as weapons to guard his precious crops of teeth; he would blast laser rays of sunlight from tiny mirrors to stun and blind marauding tooth pirates intent upon looting his fields of their ripe bicuspids and molars and—

A big juicy bug splatted against windshield, turning Weaver’s thoughts outward and back to the problem at hand.

Damn it! he thought. Why can’t bugs stay off the roads, and why did I have to get that call today? Why today of all days, after what happened last night? Why did Deputy Hayes have to be on vacation this week? Why didn’t I get the stupid air conditioner in this lemon of a car recharged with that air conditioney stuff yesterday?

The insect extract fanned, reaching out to the other flattened bugs on the windshield, and though the creature was dead, it persisted in announcing itself by means of one dull, white wing that was stuck to the glass. The wing flapped a fierce silent hello to Weaver, who tried to pay it no mind while taking a simultaneous stab at disregarding the disembodied teeth that smiled up at him from the passenger seat. Still, his eyes were pulled back, again and again, to both the wing and the disquieting grin.

Weaver coasted to a stop at a red light thrown by the sole traffic signal in Minerva, silenced the howling siren, and killed the car’s flashers. He took advantage of the convenient headrest and groaned, yearning for his wee, air conditioned office, and his agitated imagination placed him there on his executive chair, feet planted on the desk to relieve their swelling, and his nose buried in a newspaper to appear interested in world news should anyone fail to notice that he had turned to the comics first. In his office, Weaver was cocooned from life, and replete with coffee, cheesy curls, doughnuts, potato chips, and sticky chocolate éclairs. His office was an actual oasis of vacuous calm where he could relax while someone else quieted troubles and made small talk with those who insisted upon engaging in such aimless diversions as conversation.

Dang it, Weaver thought, how come everybody couldn’t leave me alone today? Noooooooo, they have to send me on a run that might end with—Oh, God forbid it end with—wrestling around with some naked guy in a public park—

Weaver recalled the wild-eyed, orange haired, alien-imbued woman who had demonstrated her mean left hook and vicious knee to Weaver last fall. She had accosted nervous tourists by asking the favor of licking the faces of the more attractive young men in the vicinity to integrate her DNA, and hence herself and the extinction-bound people on her home planet, into the thriving, life-rich world upon which she now stood until Weaver and Deputy Hayes wrestled her compact, muscular body into the back of the patrol car that bore the scars of her chewing on the back seat, scars that matched the faint but enduring pink imprints on Weaver’s right arm.

Weaver pushed his glasses up while the teeth commanded another quick look that he denied them.

He’s gonna scream and yell, Weaver thought, and Hayes ain’t here—he won’t be back till tomorrow, so I don’t have help. Everybody’s gonna stand around and stare while nakee-man does his natural thing and while I have to—Oh, God forbid I have to—grab him by his goodies to make him stop.

Weaver wished his leather gloves were in the car instead of stuffed into the pockets of his winter coat and hanging in the closet at home. His dread of the imminent confrontation had conjured a prophetic vision too theatrical for his present mood, and he chose to revisit the merry tooth farm where his control of the universe and his happiness had been complete, but he now found the defensive ploy ineffective. His apprehension intruded with the relentlessness of a pendulum set to swing over a hateful mash of embittered ingredients: one set of ill-fitting dentures, one spiteful case of male pattern baldness, and one fiftieth birthday in less than a week, in addition to his fifty pounds of over optimum weight and being disturbed by these details more than usual as his wife of over thirty years, Juanita, had packed her suitcases, along with Boris and his dog bowls and the case of weekend beer, and had walked out—leaving him friendless and in a state of implied sobriety the night before.

Dahyam, Weaver said. He pushed his glasses up, and caught a sideways glance at the scars on his arm. He sighed and rested his head against the steering wheel, aching for Juanita to call, but knowing that daydream was becoming less plausible than the tooth farm fantasy with each passing second, so instead of sinking into his usual, self-imposed state of wretchedness, he contemplated the odometer and wondered where he might be had all the miles been traveled in a straight line, in any direction, away from Minerva.

Either drowned, he mumbled. Or a greathse sthpot at the bottom of a cliff.

Jim?

Weaver shuddered and snapped to attention.

Polly Webster, proprietor of Minerva’s New Age Chandlery and Gift Shoppe that was housed in an old, refurbished bookbindery building, stooped her six-foot, and (Weaver’s guess) eighty-pound frame to look in the passenger-side window. A heavy gold ankh that dangled from a bulky gold chain around her neck swung forward and clanked against the car door. She grabbed the pendant and dropped it down the neck of her dusky gauze dress, then threaded a strand of fiery red hair behind her ear. She clasped the window frame with both hands, and allowed her abundant bangle bracelets and long fingernails to tinkle and tap a merry greeting on the door. I didn’t mean to startle you.

You didn’t really.

I guess it’s a pretty nice day, isn’t it?

Yesth, Polly. Yesth, it isth. Perfect for a naked alien roundup. But I hope thisth one ain’t as bitey asth the lasth one.

Polly glanced at the dentures riding in the passenger seat, arched her eyebrows, and looked back at Weaver. Are you okay?

Yeah, sthure!

You’re awfully pale.

I am?

Well, maybe a little bit.

She leaned further inside the window and pressed her hand against his forehead; Weaver’s eyes crossed as he looked up at her hand.

You’re warmish too, she said. I was on my way home, but if you come by the shop Monday, I’ve got some herbal tea that’ll fix you right up. Some wouldn’t hurt you either, in fact …

Polly’s voice grew fainter and Weaver watched her red lips form silent words he knew were important, but though he had always been fond of Polly, his interest in hydraphonic plant production was limited to mom and pop marijuana operations concealed in basements, and his curiosity concerning Polly’s homegrown, miracle parsley cures was next to non-existent. He gaped at her head bobbing as she spoke without a sound, and at her gold hoop earrings and golden nose ring flashing in the sunlight, and was again focusing on the crimson lips which parted and presented him with a smile when a minuscule piece of dandelion fluff wafting past Polly’s face caught on her eyebrow. She swept her hair back, and the movement dislodged the fluff that then floated through the car window and landed atop Weaver’s hat. This was an astonishing feat that he knew could not be duplicated in a million years were it tried another billion times.

… like chamomile, Polly said. So, what d’ya think? Jim? Jim?

That sthounds great, Polly. I’ll think about it.

Don’t think about it. Come see me on Monday … light’s green.

Huh?

The stoplight.

Oh! Guessth I sthould go.

Polly nodded. If you have somewhere to go, now would be the time. But will you do me a favor first? She pointed at his teeth.

Weaver’s eyes grew wide, and he grabbed the plate and clapped it into his mouth. Damn thing came loose, he said. And it won’t stick right again till I put fresh sticky stuff on it. He forced a smile, feeling blessed that it was she who had caught him in his moment of frailty. Once upon a time, Polly’s consideration had saved him from teenage ridicule and eternal damnation one bleak Monday morning in high school, one dandelion fluff target landing ago, when he had gone one round with stomach flu and emerged defeated, messing his light blue corduroy pants while leaving study hall. Polly had hidden him in her locker and telephoned his mother for help.

That’s a definite improvement, Polly said, and smiled back at Weaver with real teeth and with sparkling brown eyes that vanished in the breadth of her grin.

Weaver lifted his hand to Polly in a silent farewell, and clacking his loose teeth in a jaunty rumba rhythm, continued until he passed the rustic looking but thoroughly plastic No Alcoholic Beverages sign fixed in concrete at the entrance to the park. He pulled the car to the side of the road where he was compelled to finish clacking his song before turning the engine off, then pushed his glasses up, and put on his hat while exiting the car with authority, but ducked his head as he neared the yammering cluster of people at the top of the hill who whispered to each other as they watched him drudge up the slope.

Spontaneous combustion, Weaver thought, deeming his radiant blush as a portent that the flesh would soon be aflame.

They all know about Juanita, he thought, but no, how could they?

His steps slowed.

Horrified, he realized that everyone knew thanks to nosey old, squinty-eyed, squatty Ronny Pugh, who had watched the whole thing in the putrificent panorama of cataract vision from across the street. Pugh had sneaked from his house, lurked behind a tree, and turned the volume up on his hearing aid to absorb the audio portion of the program incognito. He heard Juanita throw her bags into the back of the pick-up and chuck her wedding ring through the bars of the sewer grate at the curb (and there could be no sound louder or more hollow and clear to the ears of hearing impaired Pugh than a wedding ring’s descent into a sewer). Pugh snickered when Juanita’s truck threw gravel from the driveway and squealed tires down the street, and he continued to laugh after the excitement was over, not content to calm down until he