The Netherdale goes best with a bold red. The large fat content of the devilishly fragrant cheese needs a wine that can take charge. The tangy Lambswood however needs a cheeky sweet white as the sugar intensifies the spice. But the blue veined Chalk Cliff? Now that is a cheese that no wine can tame, but I will be the first to match one.
The morning sun was beating down hard on the nape of young Erasmus Gielgud's neck as he stood atop his small horse-drawn cart. He was wrestling with both this tasty dilemma and one of his headache pains that could wake the dead. He was surrounded by wooden crates of wine, cheeses and other fine nibbles, trying to work out the best way of stacking them without risking one casually sliding off onto the road. He had so much fine wine and smelly cheeses, he didn’t know if he’d be able to sit on the damn cart once he’d loaded it all up. There was even the frightful chance he’d have to leave a couple of them behind to sour in the sun, due to him over-estimating how much this newly bought wagon could hold. This did however come to some relief to his horse Rusty. One didn’t have to be the grand stable master to the Last King of Mon St Calth to know the poor thing was trying his hardest to neigh “no more” with each new box that his master managed to drag on, despite testing the laws of gravity.
The weather had just been grand these last few days and it was coming to the end of a lovely summer. Though today it was a little too warm for comfort. The expensive Goats Gaggle was the first casualty of the burning sun. It had curdled in the heat. It was Erasmus’s own fault though; he knew he should have packed it with more ice. It would be easier to look after a new born child than a whole box of Goats Gaggle he thought as he watched the orange slime seap out the crate. Placing his hand into the pocket of his fine silk trousers, he pulled out a spotted handkerchief. He took of his fancy hat and began to mop away the sea of glistening sweat on this forehead, before taking a long drawn out sign which made him sound like a pair of iron-monger's bellows. He could see in the corner of his eye, someone walking down the garden path towards the mess of boxes. The person was all done up in finely pressed clothing, with a fresh petunia in this lapel. Sweltering weather or not, this particular chap always picked out the same black suit whenever he visited Erasmus.
"Great. He has that look about him. Come to pick fault with me once again” Erasmus murmured to a roll of Kingsbain.
“Be careful!” The old man barked as he drew closer. He then pulled his leathery, wizened old face into a sneering look that young Erasmus had become very used to. He referred to it as “The Last Gargoyle in the Mason's Window”. Erasmus would often joke that the old man would make the best scarecrow if he ever learned how to seal his mouth up for more than a heartbeat or two. His voice was so old and croaky that the crows would propally mistake him for their king and never leave.
"That wheel looks like it could come off at any moment. Didn't I teach you anything about wagon repairs? One more box and the thing will buckle off before you even get past the Black Bricks.” The old man flapped his arms around like a dozen corpse flies had just flown out from under his shirt.
"Are you not too warm in that old wool suit Merrick? You're as red as a jar of pickled beetroot." Erasmus snapped back, wishing he would leave him alone and let him get going. For someone who'd been dead a number of months, the old fool sure knew how to pester the living.
"Show some respect for your father boy! I strongly suggest you sell this entire mess of fancy wine and finger food, buy a looking glass and then attend to your own attire first, before commenting on mine. Just look at those ridiculous clothes you’re wearing. You look like a lavender soaked eunuch who'd feel more at home on a bed of embodied pillows then stood in my courtyard were I worked to put food on the table. And you have the nerve to mock my wardrobe.” The louder the old nag became, the faster the arms floundered.
“This leather biker jacket was tailored by Fhaornik of Ranal Seven. He’s one of the finest tailors the world has known. It’s simply an honor to wear his exquisite needle work." Erasmus stood up stright and readjusted the collar. "We can't all wear stuffy suits like you, Merrick." Erasmus didn’t have time for this shilly-shallying and he wasn't about to take clothing advice from a leather bag in black wool.
“And those red shoes, what do you call them? Basic ball boots? A man’s foot really belongs in a proper shoe Erasmus. Let’s not become like our Al-Jaffarian brothers across the Sands and forget how to dress appropriately.” Merrick’s tone had softened now but it was no less annoying to Erasmus.
"With silk pantaloons, a dress shoe with these? I think not!" Replied an exasperated Erasmus, pointing towards said pantaloons, or trousers as anyone in the old twin towns of Swaledale and Kettlewell, would better know them by.
"It's the tail end of the summer months father. All the young men in the City of Deep-Water are dressing this way right now, thanks to the new traders from Beyond the Neno Sea. Peter the Great tells me so."
The cantankerous old man then started to peer in one of the open boxes. This particular one was full of fishing equipment, rather than wine or cheese. Erasmus’s skin began to tighten as he waited for the next criticism.
"You've got all the wrong floats for delta fishing, Erasmus. And what’s with all this wine and cheese? How long are you going for? Three months? You said a coupe of days!"
"If I bother to come back at all, Father." Sighed the young man.
Merrick bent down to look at some of the wine that lay before him and tried to read its label in the sunlight. Being dead, he couldn't quite pick it up in this ethereal fingers, but the label lay conveniently upwards for his inspection. As Erasmus stood and watched him, he wondered how things had got so bad between them. He hated the underlying tension. The underlying tension that was quickly coming out from below and becoming so terribly noticeable that even a blind man on a galloping horse could now see it.
It all had to do with the family business, Gielgud’s and Sons “The finest undertakers in all of the Twin Towns”. Well at least according to his father. In fairness though, you’d be hard pressed to find better place to finally rest your bones in the whole of Mon St Cathal. Merrick had turned the place into an establishment that you could be proud of when he was still breathing, before circumstance forced him to pass it on to his only son and heir. Anyone who was anyone died knowing that Merrick Gielgud would be looking after them, once they shuffled off their mortal coil. The Last King of Mon St Cathal sent his friends and even his enemies to Merrick, believing that he alone knew the proper respectful way of bringing a soul over to the City of the End. But new owner Erasmus didn't share Merrick’s insatiable work ethic and business had slumped worse than an old corpes
“Kissed By Fire? A Queer name for a wine. And why are you drinking red in the summer months? Even a school boy knows you should be supping white. And its’ Troll Tooth cheese with heavy reds: the wine cuts through the fat. Do you think I’d have ever managed to court a sophisticated beauty like your mother; Gods rest her soul, if I couldn't even pair wines properly. You’re nether a gentleman nor undertaker.”
Erasmus hopped off the cart and angrily placed the lid back on the box, nearly breaking it as he did. He wasn't about to let this father get away with that one.
“A heavy red may be enjoyed in warmer climates, Merrick. Your old world wine paring won you mother but times have changed old man. I’m a new world gentleman. One of the Intelligencia, if you will. Stand there laughing at my wine will you? Anything that passes your rotten old lips probably ends up tasting of dust. Can the dead even drink wine? As for the undertaking game? As easy as falling off a coffin!
“So being the illustrious funeral master I am guessing that you know all the lilies in the back are wilting in this heat? And you also need to build the coffin for Rosie’s boy. He’s due burring tomorrow. Don’t forget the head, it's in the cellar."
He looked over to Erasmus and the sunlight showed every wrinkle he earned working to make the place what it was. Merrick acted as if he still owned it which was starting to drive Erasmus mad.
His mind began to wonder again as he looked back at his father’s craggy old face, following every line on it like it was an old treasure map he'd just found in a dusty long forgotten loft. Fresh flowers every morning picked and arranged, coffins built and waxed and the dead laid to rest with a smile on what was ever left of their face. That was his way of doing things and he did them right. But the cruel gods never sent him enough time in the day. From sun up to sun down, then throughout the night he’d work there. It was a beautiful building that was kept to the highest standards right down to the Kracken-skin accounting books. But it cost him both his health and his relationship with his son.
“You even listening to me, boy?” Merrick could see that this son had drifted off again.
“I hate this place and think of it as nothing more than a ball and chain keeping me here. Every night I ask the stars to send a drunken giant to come along and fall on it. At least we’ll be able to break through the misery with a bit of laughter.” Erasmus had to leave and leave now.
Merrick rolled his eyes and begin to speak again “Let conversations cease. Let laughter flee. This is the place where…."
“….death delights to help the living.” Erasmus finished the saying off for him, mimicking his dreary tone. This little axiom was one of this father’s favorite. “You loved that saying so much you had Ernest paint it on the shop wall in gold. You should have had him paint it in black instead. Black on a black wall for a black shop”
The old man ignored his sons mocking and continued to look over his belongings, just searching for things to turn his nose up at again.
"Why can't you be more like your friend Oscar?" He’s already running his father’s corn mill. Or those two other friends of yours, Gimforp and Tilly?" Merrick piped up again.
“The Tallfoot Twins? Why, what have they done to interest you?” Erasmus knew better than to ask another question. Merrick was just spoiling for more arguments.
“Erasmus, for one who prides himself on being the man about town, I’d of thought you’d know about the “Chop Shop”.” Merrick shook this head before continuing.
“You know Ironside’s Butchers upon cherry tree walk? You remember the green and slimy meat the old bastard use to sell? Well a few months back I took him under. Heart attack, probably from his rancid pork. He left them two boys with a meat market that even Mrs. Warboy’s moldy old dog wouldn’t eat in. They took the coin left to them and turned the place completely around. The Major of Deep-Water just dinned in there last week. Plus it got a page in Volo’s Guide to Mon St Cathal. That's real enterprising; I’d wish some would rub off on you. You’re just a pompous, perfumed ponce with more interest in what overly exotic dish is going past your chops then what time a working man should get himself out of bed!”
“Listen, I have plenty of ideas of my own." Erasmus hopped onto one of the boxes and turned back to Merrick.
"If you’d taken the time to listen you’d know that I’m stood sweating cobs loading up a wagon for a very good reason. It’s the first Annual Dramatics Celebration up at the Windermere Delta and one of the founders had asked me if I wouldn't mind preforming there. It’s my chance to get away from your rot shop and tread the boards like the actor I am.” He pulled out the invite to show him. “The letter arrived the other day attached to the leg of a pink flamingo. Not too many folk receive a classy invite like that now do they?”
“So that why your leaving town all of a sudden? If to be an actor and drink your cheap wine while you live your silly dream? Looks to me that you’re only going to feed your face and fish the whole time. Look at his fishing rod you’ve got here? What's it even made from?"
“It’s called stainless steel. I bought it from the traders past the Black Bricks. Iron Monger from Delos, a town across the Sands got it of a Blue-skin. Just look at his hard work and craftsmanship. Worth every bit of brass I paid." Erasmus place a hand on his forehead a squeezed a little. He was getting one of his many headaches again, no thanks to his father. Soon he'd have to lay down in a darkened room with a warm towel over his forehead. It was the only thing that really worked. Well, that and wine.
Those spice-dealing pirates don't know the meaning of a hard work or craftsmanship. Too much sun that's their problem. Blood and sweat son, that's how we do business over there. Not sitting around pissed on rum, waiting to buy rubish off blue men from over the Neno Sea. Merrick pulled up his sleeves and shuck his fist to better illustrate the point.
"Well currently all I do is wait for folk to die. And that's pretty hard to do in our merry little twin towns. There must be people well past the age of hundred. Now that's pretty unnerving. Why don't they want to die? Constant complaining seams to keep them alive but what a life to lead. A smile must be a distance memory to their face. This place is as dull as dishwater. No place for a man like me. Thanks the gods for the traders from across the Sands and the Neno Sea, it's opened up a whole new world to me. I just bought a decanter of rose water from Peter the Great just last night. It kept the smell of Mrs. Cartwright right out of my room. Not too bad on the living either. Stops me smelling like a bottle of undertaker’s fluid any road.
"You know, son, I always wished that rather than filling my nose with the smell of rose water, you'd one day fill it with the smell of sweat and wax polish." Merrick couldn't even look at him at this point.
"Why did you hate me so father?"
"It's not hate, son. Rather disappointment."
"You know something father. That's even worst."
Merrick looked down at the dusty floor between his perfectly polished shoes as he thought about what his son had just said.
"So how far is this trip of yours? What’s wrong with fishing at Mill Pond Lake? Why do you have to travel such distance? You can drink your wine here if you must. Have a glass with Daisy's daughter, Buttercup. She's looking for a husband now that Jake fell down the mineshaft. You could run the undertakers as husband and wife."
"Please can you stop your rambling! I’ll be here till next summer if you don’t let me go now! I need some time to clear my head. You demand that I make something of my life so I going to make some plans." Erasmus was leaving and leaving now. Merrick wouldn’t be keeping him any longer. He begin his packing once more.
Merrick pointed his boney finger at Erasmus as he started to talk."I do hope you'd get that absurd idea of becoming a famous actor out your mind and focus back on the dead. Both towns have enough nonsense for the drunks and poets to fill their heads with, we don't need anymore stage plays."
"I feel that I'm wasting my time talking to father. You've never going to be happy till you see me spend the rest of my days sewing people back together only to bury them with the worms or set them on fire."
"Always with the jesting, boy. One day you'll see me sewing bells onto that daft hat of yours."
"Daft hat? This hat was made by Rasputin of...” Erasmus didn't get chance to finish as his father cut in.
"Oh Erasmus, for the love of all that’s holy, give that mouth a rest! Who's going to watch the shop in your absence, not those three lead headed brothers? They’re in there now, pulling out all the fluids out from cold storage and replacing them with jars of harvest mincemeat. Where did you find these three? Was Pilgrim Asylum selling off some for their over-stock?”
Erasmus could see Merrick looking at his posh silk trousers flapping in the gentle wind as they argued. He watched his eyes narrow to focus on his handmade shirt that was tucked into them. The outline of the woman on it was stitched from real gold thread. The same kind of expense thread that wouldn’t look out of place adorning a King. Merrick then turned to look at the wagon's haul. All the best cheese that coin could buy. I bet he's thinking how could my son afford all this, all of a sudden.
"Erasmus, you haven't, have you." Merrick had worked it all out just before Erasmus could run away to the delta.
He stopped loading up for a moment and looked to the floor before talking. He had to think of something halfway credible to tell his farther.
"Well I think it would make a better pie shop than an undertaker. And the lads gave me a fair bit of gold for it."
"You sold it! You, boy, have broken my heart!" Merrick eyes were as wide as dinner plates with rage.
"You think of yourself as such a big fish shoehorned into the little ponds of Swaledale and Kettlewell. Well drink your hogwash with the rich and famous up at the Delta but know this boy, there is always a bigger fish than you. And since you love my sayings so, you can have this one for free. I have long since known that the big fish eats the small.”
“You know, I’d love to one day give you a real thrashing. If you weren’t already dead!
Erasmus was at the end of his patience. How much longer must his dead father keep him from his plans.
“It’s time you got your foppish head out of the clouds and start to properly take the reins of the family business. You’ll still be able to give them back the gold you haven't spent, it’s not too late. You’ve let my high standards slip and the three knuckleheads you’ve sold it to don’t know how to dress themselves let alone dress a dead body”
"Why do you insist on visiting me from beyond the grave anyway? Is your soul in a state of unrest? Have you a message for me? I’m I the only one to see the irony of an undertaker who can talk to the dead? I must be the only one in the trade to be able to ask the corpse what it thought of its own service. I knew I should have cremated you. But then knowing you I’d still be arguing about wine with a clay pot of ash on legs.”
“Clay! Well I’m glad you didn’t, I’d want gilded blue gold flaked ceramic. And thank you by the way for burying me in pinewood after I asked for deep oak. Wait, you just said an undertaker who talks to the dead. How many of the un-dead to you talk to besides me?”
“Do I detect jealously in your voice farther. I’m going be honest with you right now. This is a dream or something to that effect. No one speaks to the dead. I know his is all in my head and we’ve got unresolved…”
“Who else!” Merrick snapped.
"Just one other. It’s of little concerned to you.”
“WHO!” Merrick was a deeper shade of red than the most crimson of picket beetroots now.”
“Ariadne.” Whispered Erasmus.
“WHAT! By the seven gateways to the abyss, I knew it! I knew she’d follow after you still even in death. She’s bad news. You’ll end up like her if you get too close. How many pieces did her Lord husband bring to us to bury? Or should I say how few, we only managed to fill half the coffin!
"Father, only you could get sick of The Three Heavens and come and bother me down here. You’re dead to me. Again.”
Silently he picked up the last two crates and placed them on the back. He’d be taking everything, safe stacking be damned. He would not allow any of his fine wines to stay behind and fester like this father in this negativity vortex. As he lifted the last one up onto the way overloaded cart, his leg gave way and he let it crash to the floor. The wooden egg cracked open and spilt its yolk all over. A small number of dragon-rockets rolled out from amongst the rolling cheeses and broken bottles and stopped at Merrick’s shiny shoes. He looked at them, seething with rage at the outlawed and highly dangerous explosives, and then to this embarrassed looking son.
“Let me guess. She persuaded you to buy them?”
