A Royal Buckingham Guard

It's Short Story Monday and time for something a little different. I won't pretend this is a great story, but I had fun with the idea. I hope that's how my readers will take it. And if you ever go to England, be sure to see the changing of the guards.

A Royal Buckingham Guard

One of the more fascinating aspects of travelling abroad is meeting the people who live there, whether it be enjoying a few moments in a quaint chat or sharing an evening's intrigue. Sometimes, if Fate permits, we may even be entitled -- by means of a glimpse -- to gain an insight into one or another of life's great mysteries. One such insight was afforded me on my last visit to England.

It was typical English weather for late September. I had found myself a free evening without company. (My business takes me to England on the average of once a year.) As I walked the streets near my hotel, I became attached to the idea that if I were lucky I could find a pub. The idea of being stuck with no one to talk to for four hours had little appeal this night and, sure enough, I'd no sooner turned the bend when I came upon The Bull Dog, a tavern at the corner of Devonshire and Greene.

Upon entering, I was greeted by a poker-faced elderly gentleman who walked with the most precise and erect carriage. "G'devening, sire."

"Uh, yes, if you wish."

"Might I offer the fine gentleman a seat. Join me. Please. Are you a writer?"

"A writer? Beg your pardon. Why, yes, but how did you know?"

"I've been waiting for a writer. Expecting you. I hope you are THE writer."

"Well, it could be a mistake, I suppose."

He made no reply and I sat awkwardly wondering what to say. At last he ordered each of us a stein of Guinness and paid for it, but offered no explanation of why he was seeking a writer. In fact, he offered no small talk at all, or little more than an occasional grunting assent.

"Miserable weather," I said.

"Un-hmm."

"Quite a chill wind there."

"Uh-hmm."

"Good thing I found somewhere to get out of the cold."

"Un-hm."

His eyes conveyed the desire to find someone else to label as his writer but it was quite useless. It had evidently been foreordained, neither his wishes nor mine withstanding. At last he extended his hand to me and grudgingly presented his name. "Jack Moore."

"Pleased to meet you. Ed Nichols," I said, taking the hand and giving it a firm shake.

We sipped from our steins and proceeded to study one another. Halfway through my second beer the outside world had completely fallen away.

A fly suddenly made its appearance and -- though at the time I gave it no significance -- began tickling the knuckles of my right hand, first landing then departing, repeating this ritual until I had at last taken full notice and made a swift grab for him with my left. My companion had not blinked an eye, observing as he was my strange effort at capture. The fly landed now on the table and with extreme patience I had cupped my hands closer and closer about him.

"Don't kill that fly!" Moore cried out.

"What?"

"He's trying to tell you something."

"Please?"

"Did you see how he landed on your right hand? You are right handed, correct?"

"So?"

"He's telling you to write. Take up your pen. It's time."

"Maybe he's telling me to shoot you."

"You jest. You have a gun?"

"Not with me."

"Then stop playing this game of yours and let's get down to business then."

"How many of these have you had before I got here?" I said, pointing at the Guinness.

"None," he replied. "I had just arrived for my seven o'clock meeting with a writer who will tell my story."

"And what story is that?"

He lowered his voice. "I used to be a Royal Buckingham Guard. It is the Secret of the Guards I wish to tell. I'm telling you so you will write it." At this he leaned very far forward over the table and spoke barely above a whisper. "You must understand that it will sound quite bizarre for you at first. Especially if you've never heard things like this. But there are some people who know what's really happening, and it is for these few that I write, for the time has come to speak. You have been brought here by Providence to write and this story must be told."

I've long since learned that sincerity should not be confused with truth. A belligerent, convinced the earth is flat, is not likely to speak falteringly of his conviction. It must have been at this point that I pondered making a request for his credentials. I let the matter slide, choosing simply to hear the man out.

Jack Moore leaned hard against the back of his booth bench, face jutting forward so that the line of his neck formed nearly a right angle to his torso, eyes blazing with an urgency and vehemence that is uncommon among what I call "normal" people. What he told me, what I am about to tell, you will likely dismiss as outright silliness. But you have no idea what kind of impact it had on me, and the state of mind it left me in. Yes, a state of mind! It about drove me crazy to think of it. I mean... You will understand when I have set forth his proposition.

As I have already mentioned, his name was Jack Moore. Good English name. And a Buckingham Guard. The truth which he wished to convince me of was that England was ruled by the Devil.

I did not think that such a statement was even debateable. I mean, the Holy Book teaches us about as much when it compares the empires of this world to Babylon, and all the other statements about the State in opposition to the People of God.

Yet even so, we do not really live with this conviction. We are pleased to see Billy Graham at President's Clinton's inauguration. We imagine that there are both good monarchs and bad in England as well as all other civilized Christian states. We spend little time dwelling on this, and modestly accept it. People are basically good, even kings sometimes.

Jack Moore did not agree. "Let me tell you how a Guard learns discipline," said he. "It's the flies. We are trained by the flies!"

"Get a grip, man," I wanted to say.

People at the next table turned and stared at us, one bloke in mid-chew. Moore was focused only on getting his story heard, explainging how each new guard undergoes rigorous training, so as not to flinch a muscle, narry even a blink if it be possible, while on duty. Duty! This duty not to the monarch, but to the one who is above even the monarch, the Lord of the Flies.

To Be Continued

Picture with doiley look at left created by Down Home Creations