A Boy Alone: Hoodwinked

By Alan John Mayer

Join Queen Mother Marguerite, her companion maid Uppsola Pumba, and palace staff for revelations about youth, and a lesson on the history of Entitlement.

When Fear invades Tolerance Abundance sends in mind troops. Whether Understanding and Forgiveness will join in the war effort can only be surmised.
Princess Princilla wants it all, and she usually gets it, prompting her stepsisters, non-royals Possessa and Gezealous Bonheur, to agree upon a pact, sealed in blood—whatever it takes to escape spinsterhood.

Book I: OBSESSED introduces the reader to the royal Goldspinner family, palace staff, Parliamentarians, and the sixteen United States of Consciousness.
Book II: HOODWINKED reserves the reader a 1st class stateroom next to the royal family aboard the H.M.S. Consciousness for the 1924 Tour of the States.
Book III: THE LIE sets the reader among the pageantry of palace life... but a crown does not guarantee a happily-ever-after.
Book IV: POSSESSED casts the reader out of the palace, proving that even the most royal is not the most loyal.
Book V: LOST in CONFUSION guides the reader through the States of Consciousness in a search for truth.
Book VI: VICTORY OVER SELF leads the reader back to the palace, where we learn that the most important kingdom to conquer is the one within.

Illustrated by Disney artist, Steve Lubin.

For more information: www.AlanJohnMayer.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan John Mayer
• Release date: Dec 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463322611

Alan John Mayer

Alan John Mayer was born in Casablanca, Morocco. As a child dependent of his U.S. Department of Defense father, he lived along the North African and European Mediterranean rim. Before graduating from high school, he had attended eleven schools on three continents. Growing up, foreign languages, foreign cultures, and change were the norm.At fifteen, he was trouble thrust into a series of foster homes; the fourth in the heart of Europe’s coal mining country—Germany’s post-war Ruhr Valley. He hopped a train to his favorite aunt’s house in the country. Not knowing what to do with a 15 year-old boy, on his paperboy and lawn care savings in the States, she arranged for him to visit former classmates of hers in several European capitals.In 1978, he began a life in Southern California and a journal. He holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Theater and Television Production from the University of California, a Multi-lingual K-AdultTeaching Credential from the same, a Practitioner’s license from Earnest Holmes College in Los Angeles, and an M.A. in Childhood Development from the University of Life.He enjoys animals, the beach, gardening, and reading..

Book preview

CHAPTER I

The Crown Appears

An age ago, in a land far away, citizens of the sixteen United States of Consciousness fought inner demons of Fear and Terror on a daily basis, as we do today. Dividing the continent in half was the Black Snake River, the border between east and west that separated Indifference, Grace, and Tolerance from Fear and Terror. Those schooled in the east had been taught a divided life is a rewarding life. Those educated in the west had been taught a life lived in Fear, and Terror, was no way to live. Their doctrine was was one united with their creed. One off the mark word from either state could send the two back on the warpath.

This was a fate Pristine Goldspinner, Queen of Entitlement, sovereign of Abundance, attempted to avoid. There were two Goldspinner princesses; Pristine, and her twin, princess Erica Gold-Runner of Discord, née Goldspinner, twelve minutes older than she.

When the twins were ten years of age, princess Erica was witness to their parents being swallowed up in an earthquake, something but for a call of nature, princess Pristine was spared. Erica was tormented by nightmares in which she saw her parents grasping for help, their bodies half consumed, and she, unable to help. More than once, the traumatic event sent Erica to Insanity. There at the Insanity state sanitarium in Loco, under the care of the most knowledgeable doctors, she underwent a series of shock treatment therapy in an effort to stop the nightmares. Unfortunately, the series of treatments left the princess stress-struck, and slightly off balance.

Upon princess Erica’s return to Entitlement, after the last treatment in Loco, doctors, and the Court of Entitlement, deemed the princess unfit to rule. After long deliberation, the Court decided it was in the best interest of the kingdom to have the princesses exchange birth certificates with each other.

When in 1910 King Poldemire refused to give his granddaughter, Erica, permission to marry his former chauffeur, Buzz Runner, she and her lover eloped. After a state funded honeymoon in Play, the couple returned to Discord, and purchased an 18th Century castle on Top of the Crags, outside Gruntle—a diy in need of much attention.

Following the death of King Poldemire, princess Pristine was coroneted Queen of Entitlement, regent of Abundance, in the coronation of a lifetime. After a lengthy courtship, the Queen married the prince of Grace, Defender of the Faith, Godwyn Bonheur, who, as the Queen’s consort, walked perpetually three steps behind her from that day on. To consort Godwyn, nothing was more important than his Queen’s happiness. It was the prince’s faith, and charm, that kept the Queen in balance. Upon that, the consort depended.

The only person who truly understood princess Erica, (with the exception of her sister Pristine,) was her husband Buzz, knighted in 1914 to Sir, by Queen Pristine, to be known thereafter as Sir Buzz Runner.

As anyone who ever sat through a history class knows, to Entitlées, and Abundites alike, the good life comes with a guarantee. However, in the state’s defense, when Tolerance sent out word they sought help in mediating between Fear and Terror, Abundance was the first state to step to the plate—before Anticipation, Resolution, even Forgiveness.

During this last of many wars, fighting for what seemed like an eternity, Fear and Terror had nearly killed each other off. Many citizens of Consciousness wish they had, but they understood, both Fear and Terror are important to maintaining balance on the continent. With the last war now over, the continent is at peace, if only for now. The war may be over, but the fires that fuel the battles between Fear and Terror had yet to be extinguished.

As November gets underway, the Solstice holidays approach. In an era of unquestioned deference, and secrecy, Queen Pristine’s two miscarriages had been kept from the public. Though two years earlier, the news of a stillborn prince did not escape the public’s ears.

Last we checked on the Queen, propped up in her canopy bed in her bedchamber, whe was screaming between contractions. Wagers in the taverns in town, placed on the gender of the future heir, had skyrocketed. It seemed every subject in town wanted to place their bet on a venture with fifty percent odds of winning.

The royal gynecologist, Dr. Meddle Fingerling, was in attendance in the birthing room, along with the midwife, Nurse Abigail Chien, administering sedative whenever necessary. Dr. Fingerling had brought six members of the royal family into the world over the course of his long, distinguished career, all girls. Nanny Carabella Needlepinch, Queen Pristine’s life partner since before birth, held a tight grip on her young protégé’s hand, providing strength, while the Queen’s three maids, Mrs. Mina Amora, Miss Competencia Arguille, and Miss Cocoa Rocco, stood by to witness the birth.

Dr. Fingerling wiped his spectacles in his handkerchief, and set them back on the bridge of his nose. After a well-deserved rest between contractions, he returned to the Queen’s bed, and checked on his work.

Nurse, huff, huff—I cannot bear these contractions. Shoot me already. Doctor Fingerling, give me a soporific. Now! Cries echoed down the corridor, but these were not the cries of an infant. Motivated by her cheering witnesses, Pristine pushed, and contracted, pushed and contracted, again and again.

The portly old doctor checked in, and cheered the Queen on. Keep pushing, Your Majesty. I can see the crown.

Nanny tightened her grasp. We are almost there, Pristine. Keep pushing."

In all the commotion surrounding the Queen’s pregnancy, and the baby shower, which had now been postponed twice, palace butler Orderic Tibbons had neglected some of his duties—namely anything to do with paperwork. He sat at his desk in his pantry, when the under butler, Abel Handsforth, knocked on his open door.

Excuse the interruption, Mr. Tibbons.

What is it, Handsforth?

Mr. Frost is here to see you.

At this hour? Mr. Tibbons looked at the clock, and thwacked himself on the forehead. I forgot to pay the ice bill. He rummaged through some papers. I know the bill is in here somewhere. Send him in, Handsforth.

Yes, Sir. Handsforth returned to the servants’ hall, and escorted the iceman to the butler’s pantry.

Mr. Tibbons rose from his desk. Mr. Frost—how are you?

Well, Mr. Tibbons, he shook the butler’s hand. I am alive, thank you. Forgive my disturbing you so late.

Take a seat, please. The butler sat down at his desk. "It is you who must forgive me, for having pulled you out in this miserable weather when you could be home."

Mr. Tibbons, with six young ones in the house, being out is my chance to find peace.

"That is a houseful. Congratulations on number six."

Have we an heir, Mr. Tibbons?

Not yet. Nine months, thirteen days, and counting.

A tremendous investment is riding on the gender of this birth, in the taverns in town. The wagers have been skyrocketing.

I read about that. Isn’t it silly? This baby is bound to be a boy, the way he has been kicking Her Majesty in the stomach. I imagine you are here concerning our overdue account.

Well, yes; that was on my mind.

I have been rather careless, in all the excitement these past few months. The butler rummaged through his stack of papers. I know it’s here somewhere. Here it is. Goodness—I haven’t paid since August, and here it is November. How much do I owe you?

Two crowns, three sovereigns, and six pence.

The butler pulled three coins out of the moneybox, and handed them to the iceman. Here are three crowns, Mr. Frost.

I have no change, Mr. Tibbons.

Nor have I. The holidays are approaching. Buy your tots some toys.

My wife already bought toys, Mr. Tibbons. She does the holiday shopping in September, when items are on sale. With your permission, I would like to pass the balance along to her, toward the electric washing machine she has been saving for.

Please do, Mr. Frost, with best wishes from the palace.

She will be delighted. Thank you, Mr. Tibbons. She has been saving for almost a year now.

"You may want to ask Mrs. Bissiby if she recommends a particular brand."

"How is Mrs. B.?"

"Happy, as usual, or so it seems. She just returned from vacation in Bereavement."

Vacation—in Bereavement?

She was visiting her parents. I’m sure she would like to say hello. I’ll see if I can find her when we walk out.

The iceman tore a sheet out of his book. Your receipt, Mr. Tibbons.

Thank you, Mr. Frost. You marked the accout paid through 1918, I see.

Yes. Thank you for your business, Mr. Tibbons. And please, thank Her Majesty for me.

We appreciate that. Mr. Tibbons added the receipt on his stack of papers, and rose from his chair. "If you will follow me to the hall, I will see if I can find Mrs. B."

Mrs. Bissiby entered, hand extended. Mr. Frost, how good to see you.

Good to see you, Mrs. B. How are you?

Couldn’t be better. I just returned from visiting my parents, up north. And yourself? How is business?

It’s seen better days. Too many of my customers have been buying electric iceboxes. If this trend keeps up, I will be out of business before 1919 is out.

I am sad to hear that. All these years, you have been such a reliable provider.

It’s what we call progress, Mrs. B.

Mrs. B.—Mrs. Frost is going to buy a washing machine. I told Mr. Frost you might recommend a brand.

"Only a Speed Queen. It’s the only machine to invest in. It gets whites their whitest because the clothes spin vertically, not horizontally. Oh—wait here. I have something for you. I will be right back. She exited the hall. Only a Speed Queen, Mr. Frost, only a Speed Queen."

"Quigley…"

Sir?

Help Mr. Frost with his hat and coat, please.

Yes, Sir. The footman headed to the wardrobe.

Mrs. Bissiby stepped back into the hall, carrying a berry flat. I have a treat for you, Mr. Frost—strawberries.

Strawberries? In Novermber?

"Flown in from Possession this morning, fresh from Mío."

Thank you, Mrs. B. They smell delicious. He inhaled the scent of the fresh berries. Mrs. Frost was telling me just yesterday how she wanted to bake a strawberry shortcake, but couldn’t find any berries at the market.

"Now she can treat you to a dessert, for your hard work. Give my regards to your wife, Mr. Frost, and remember—only a Speed Queen."

"Only a Speed Queen. Thank you. I will relay the message."

Well, Mr. Frost, good night. Mr. Tibbons shook the iceman’s hand, and opened the service door to a torrent of rain cascading over the ledge. Woah—it’s a deluge.

A downpour. It really is coming down.

I wish you a safe journey to your dry, warm home, Mr. Frost.

Oh, no, Mr. Tibbons. The iceman shook his head. "Contentment Lane isn’t the only account in arrears. I have three more stops to make. Apparently, Her Majesty’s pregnancy has the whole town preoccupied. Well, I guess I have no choice but to wander out. He raised his hood. God bless the Queen, Mr. Tibbons—and our heir."

God bless the Queen, and our heir. Soon, hopefully. Good night, Mr. Frost.

The iceman jumped onto his cart, cracked the reins, and the horses took off into the pouring rain.

Mr. Tibbons stayed up all evening addressing accounts, until short of three o’clock in the morning, when he dozed off. Dawn’s light, shining in through the casement windows, awakened him. He opened his eyes, and yawned. I ahd better go check on Her Majesty. He took the elevator to the second floor, walked to the Queen’s bedchamber, and knocked on the door.

The door opened. Mr. Tibbons, Dr. Fingerling poked his head over the threshold. What can I do for you?

Have we an heir, Doctor Fingerling?

Your timing has improved, Mr. Tibbons. We have an heir, indeed. You may inform the Defender he is the father of a healthy baby girl, sixteen inches tall baby—eight pounds, nine ounces.

A princess? Not a prince?

The heir is female, Mr. Tibbons.

The butler looked over the threshold, and saw the Queen, asleep in her bed. "Where is the princess?"

The princess is in the nursery.

I hope not with Carabella Needlepinch.

The princess is in the care of Miss Annie.

Who is Miss Annie?

Miss Annie Zumwohl—the new nanny.

When was a new nanny hired?

Last month, but with the delay in the heir’s arrival, she arrived only last week.

Who hired this new nanny?

Miss Needlepinch did the hiring.

That is the Queen’s decision to make—not Nanny Needlepinch.

Miss Needlepinch thought she could handle the duty, but at the last moment we decided it was best to hire additional help. If you would, extend my congratulations to the consort, please. Dr. Fingerling shut the door.

The butler pushed the door open. Wait—is the Queen in good health?

Both the Queen and the princess are in good health, Mr. Tibbons. Now if you will excuse me, I am packing up to leave.

I will see you out, Doctor.

No need for that, Mr. Tibbons. For the past seven months, I have been in and out of this bedchamber every week. I can find the door. Oh, if you would, when Her Majesty awakens, please inform her I shall return tomorrow afternoon for my regular visit.

Mr. Tibbons walked away feeling belittled. He dropped by the dressing room to pick up the consort’s robe, and proceeded with it to the library. Another girl, he thought—this is not going to please the consort. He entered the library, and found the consort asleep before the fire, asleep in Poldemire’s old leather chair. He nudged consort Godwyn. Sir, we have an heir.

Godwyn yawned, and stretched his arms.

We have an heir, Sir.

An heir?—Godwyn leaped out of the chair. How is Pristine?

The Queen is in good health, Sir, as is the princess.

"Thank God this adventure is over. Did you say princess?"

I did, Sir. The adventure has only just begun.

Another female?

Yes, Sir. She is sixteen inches tall, and weighs eight pounds, nine ounces.

Godwyn slouched back into the chair. "I have three princesses to marry off."

"Shall I inform Miss Possessa, and Miss Gezealous they have a stepsister?"

Not unless you want your head bitten off. Male, or female, they see this heir as a threat.

Mr. Tibbons pushed a button, and the drapes drew open in a semi-circle. He reached for the consort’s robe, and held it up. Her Majesty is sleeping. I thought you might want to meet your new daughter.

Where is she?

You will find her in the nursery, Sir.

Not with Nanny Needlepinch.

Miss Needlepinch has hired an assistant.

Yes, I heard from Dr. Fingerling last we spoke.

The butler held the robe up. If you will slip this on, Sir.

Godwyn got out of the chair, and held his arms out. Eight pounds, nine ounces—that’s a big baby. No wonder Pristine was in labor two days.

Yes, Sir. The butler tied the sash.

Another daughter. Godwyn shook his head. "What am I to do with another daughter?"

We have three now, Sir.

Tibbons, the telegram last night, it was from the War Office.

Yes, Sir, I noticed that when it arrived.

The war is over.

Yes. Handsforth shared the news below stairs.

"The Terrorists dropped their weapons, and cowered into Scare City, while the Fearlings ran back to Fright."

What simple people they are. You can reconnect with your family, Tibbons.

I have nothing in common with my relatives in Fear, Sir. The family has been divided too long by the Black Snake Line.

In the end, it looks like 1918 will be a year worth remembering. Godwyn walked to his desk, pulled a box of cigars out of a drawer, and held the box out. Have a cigar, Tibbons. I know you don’t smoke, but light one up anyway. Burn it on both ends.

Thank you, Sir.

Take a dozen, for staff.

Thank you. They do not smoke, but they will surely appreciate the keepsake.

Godwyn turned around at the door. How do I look, Tibbons?

Tired, Sir. Like you haven’t sleep in days. But very regal at that.

Good. My daughter’s first impression of me should be a good one.

I imagine she will forgive you for being unshaven.

CHAPTER II

Wash Your Hands

Godwyn walked across the hall to Pristine’s bedchamber, mumbling, a-no-ther prin-cess. He stopped at the gallery, and addressed the portraits of his wife’s ancestors, looking down on him from within frames of gold. Every time I walk by, I feel you scrutinizing me, he said. Stop it, right now. Mumbling again, he continued to Pristine’s bedchamber. He approached, and saw the royal electrician standing on a ladder over the Queen’s door, twisting wires to a sconce on the fritz.

The electrician slipped his pliars into his toolbelt. He descended the ladder, clapped it shut, and bowed before the consort. Your Royal Highness, good morning.

The consort smiled. No title, nor bow necessary, my good man—we have an heir.

Congratulations, Sir—and to Her Majesty, a prince is born. The electrician secured the ladder under his arm, carried it to the service stairs, and disappeared.

Godwyn stood outside Pristine’s door, counted to ten, and turned the handle. It’s locked. Tibbons said Pristine is sleeping. Mina must have locked it. I’ll come back later.

As he walked away, the door opened, and Nanny Needlepinch stuck her nose out, over the threshold. What are you doing here, Sir?

Godwyn walked back to the door. "What are you doing here, Needlepinch?"

This is my work domain.

Where are the maids?

They are off duty. Sir

Godwyn pushed on the door. Let me in, Needlepinch. Move your foot.

It’s not my foot.

Whatever it is—move it.

It’s a chair.

Move it.

Show me your hands first.

I will not. Move the chair.

I take no chances. I do not care who you are, Sir. If you want to enter my domain, you will show me your hands.

You are a bossy old broad, Needlepinch. Godwyn held out his hands.

Um-hmm—just as I thought. Turn them over.

My hands are clean.

I will determine that. Turn them over. Nanny examined his fingernails. As I suspected—go wash up.

Let me in, Needlepinch.

To you, your hands may look clean, but I assure you, Sir, they are covered in germs. Go wash up.

Enough. Godwyn gave the door one powerful push, and it opened. He walked into the chamber, and saw Pristine, asleep, in her canopy bed. Why is she not awake? he asked.

She has been given a sedative.

You crazy old woman. What did you give her?

Tsk, tsk, tsk, Nanny shook her head. You silly, middle-aged consort. Nurse Chien gave her a mild sedative to make her sleep.

Put that chair where it belongs, Needlepinch.

Nanny inched the chair across the carpet with her foot. We needed to sit down during the delivery, but I shouldn’t expect you to know anything about childbirth.

Where is the new Nanny?

She just got off duty.

Who gave you authorization to hire her?

Her Majesty did.

While under sedation, no doubt. Needlepinch, you had better be gone when I return, or I am going to throw you out. Godwyn walked out, and proceeded across the hall to the nursery.

Nanny poked her head over the threshold, to get in the last word. Wash up before you return, she barked.

Godwyn stepped into the nursery, and saw in the rocker before him a young woman reading a book, while with her free hand, she swayed the bassinet. She set her book down, upon seeing the consort, rose to her feet, and curtseyed. Sir Godwyn, good morning.

No need to curtsey, Miss Annie. Godwyn did a double take, as he passed the mirror. Oh my, I didn’t expect I’d look this bad. I look like a hobo. He ran his fingers through his uncombed hair. Forgive my trousled appearance, Miss Annie.

No need, Sir. I imagine you haven’t slept in days.

You’re right; I haven’t.

Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure, Sir.

Yes, I imagine you are right. Godwyn looked into the bassinet. How is she?

Very quiet, Sir.

Godwyn stroked the baby’s cheek, and tickled her little button nose. "Welcome to Entitlement, little one. Oh my, Miss Annie—she is a big baby."

She has gained six more ounces since Miss Needlepinch put her on Pablum.

Godwyn pulled the blanket back, and counted ten fingers, and ten toes. Let me check the back, he said. No tail is always a good sign.

Miss Annie smiled. Yes, I imagine so. I haven’t seen a tail, Sir.

That’s a princess, all right. Godwyn covered her with the blanket, and returned her to the basinet. Thank you for your care, Miss Annie.

It is my pleasure to serve, Sir.

Have you been a nanny before?

"Yes, Sir. I served the Nakuya family for seven years, in Forbearance, until the youngest graduated from high school. Miss Needlepinch has my letters of reference."

"Are you from Forbearance, Miss Zumwohl?"

"No, Sir. I was born in Pardon Moi, but I grew up in Clemency."

"A fellow Tolerite. Well, welcome to the palace. We hope you will be happy with us for many years."

Thank you, Sir.

Had life not been so overwhelming these past few days, we might have met more formally.

I imagine so.

Well, Miss Zumwohl, I am off for a shave, and a bath. I wish you an enjoyable day.

Thank you, Sir. I wish you the same.

CHAPTER III

A Close Shave

Godwyn returned to his bedchamber. That Carabella Needlepinch really pushes my buttons, he told himself. I would put her on the next train back to Terror, but Pristine would kill me. Godwyn, defend your faith. Go take a bath. It’ll invigorate you. He walked to his dressing room, and pushed a button next to the light switch.

Mr. Tibbons entered. Are you ready for your bath, Sir?

I am. Godwyn let fall the robe. I saw the princess, Tibbons. She is beautiful.

No reason to expect anything less, Sir.

She looks like her mother.

Indeed. The butler pushed the button. We have much to celebrate.

Ten fingers, ten toes.

That is how babies come—generally speaking, Sir.

Quigley entered. You rang?

Yes, Quigley. I want you to draw the consort’s bath. One-hundred four degrees.

Yes, Sir. Right away. The footman bowed out, and walked to the lavatory.

Sir, you may want to shave before you see Her Majesty.

Yes, of course. Godwyn dragged his fingers across his whiskers. It’s been three days.

Mr. Tibbons led the consort to the shaving alcove. Into the chair, Sir. You want to look good, as you and Her Majesty, ring in the new world.

Yes, a new world. Godwyn got comfortable in the barber’s chair, and closed his eyes.

Mr. Tibbons pulled out a six-inch long stainless steel blade, and ran it up and down a long leather belt to sharpen it. At six foot-two, the butler towered over the seated consort. Relax, Sir, he held the blade to Godwyn’s throat.

I must say… Godwyn swallowed, I feel a bit vulnerable, sitting in this position.

As would anyone under the knife, Sir.

I place my life into your hands, Tibbons.

With confidence, Sir. Now relax. A shave, a hot bath, and you will feel like a new man.

I need a bath all right.

Yes, Sir. Tibbons ran the blade up the consort’s neck—two more strokes, and we will be done.

I feel better already.

Indeed. Tibbons grabbed a towel, and wet it. Just let me wipe up this excess lather, and your bath should be ready. There you go—voilà"

Godwyn rose from the chair, and ran his fingers across his cheeks—Nice and close. Thank you, Tibbons. I think I’ll go sit in my contemplation room now.

When you are ready, Sir.

Water gurgling through the pipes confirmed another day’s guilt flushed away, as the consort stepped out of his contemplation room, and proceeded to the lavatory. No better way to start the day than by letting go of the past. Mr. Tibbons followed the consort into the lavatory, where Quigley waited, at the full tub of water.

Temperature, Quigley?

One hundred-four degrees, Mr. Tibbons, and as you can see, big bubbles per request.

"Thank you, Quigley. Please send in Fiddlestix."

Yes, Sir. The footman nodded, stepped out, and closed