Diffidentia
1 – To Err is Dwarf
Tingo lay on the hard cobbles looking up at the Market Cross; It was four o’clock in the morning and his tired eyes were trying to focus on an advert for a travelling circus, written in the old language “Lotsipus Offunniae Forolliae Thy Familiops”. Then, some other writing caught his attention because it was glowing in the darkness. It appeared to be a heart with the names ‘Gregson’ and ‘Charity the Chicken’ engraved in the stone.
‘Well, at least Gregson found someone,” he mumbled casually throwing his finished waterskin of methylated Wormage and listening to the satisfying “plop” sound as it hit the cobbles.
“Who goes there?!” came a severe bark from the darkness.
Tingo sat up and turned his head like a Man-of-War battleship trying to tack in choppy waters. His eyes saw a blurred light, a lantern coming towards him, and his heart began to beat faster as something profoundly deep in his fuzzy, alcohol-fuelled brain, encouraged him to shift his squelchy, inebriated rump.
“Dammi’! Guards!” he mumbled and rolled on to his hands and knees, using the stone seat to pull himself to his feet. He looked up Lord Street, but the light was no longer there. He frowned and looked up Gutter Street, seeing nothing but darkness. He frowned some more, then he smiled, shrugged, couldn’t remember why he’d got up, and consequently sat down on the seat, just balancing on the edge.
“Well, if it isn’t our nightly friend, Tingo Cong,” came a voice in the darkness as a cover on a lantern was lifted off.
Tingo fell off the seat in surprise. He rolled over and tried to stand, but ended up face down in a puddle, his bottom stuck in the air. The wetness was cool and refreshing on his cheek and he felt a need to hydrate. He began to slurp the water.
One of the guards laughed.
“Look, Alfie, he’s drinking the puddle.”
The other guard laughed too.
“Ew! I wouldn’t do that, Cong. You don’t know what that is.”
“’Tis lovely,” Tingo remarked between slurps as his ginger fringe flopped into the pool.
He felt a foot against his left hip, and he was pushed over, rolling onto his back. Now, the lantern was in his face.
“Drunk and disorderly again, Cong. What did I say to ya last night? That’s two weeks in prison.”
“I’m no’ drun’,” Tingo lied.
“You’re not?”
Tingo shook his head and closed his eyes.
“er…I’ve got a condition,” he said.
“Ha! A condition? Good try, sun…”
“Well, it’s a disease, in fact,” he lied again.
There was silence.
“Then why does this waterskin smell of methylated Wormage,” a guard said picking up the sack.
“Yeah, good one,” the other replied.
Tingo nodded his head for a long time and pouted.
“Um…I’m drinking Meths to stem the disease. It is the only cure.”
“Hey?”
“It’s true. I’ve been cursed with the disease all my dwarven life.”
The lantern moved back from him.
“Well, what kind of disease is it?”
“Er…well…It has many names. In the old language its…,” he glanced at the poster on the stone pillar, “…er…Totallycus…er…Frigginae Lostatiops.”
“Lostatiops?!” one guard said.
Tingo nodded again.
“Hey, Brad, I’ve heard about Lostatiops,” said Alfie, “Bootheimer said she found a guy who had Lostatiops too. Exactly the same as this. It must be contagious, don’t you think?”
“But Bootheimer’s sixty-four, Alfie. She’s always mishearing things.”
“Yeah, but now we have another guy who’s repeating it, Brad. That ain’t coincidence.”
There was the sound of shuffling feet.
“Jeez. Maybe you’re right. We ‘aven’t touched ‘im or anything, ‘ave we?”
“You did…wiv your boot.”
“Oh yeah. Blimey. Come on, I’d better go and wash it.”
A guard turned to Tingo.
“‘ey, sicky, you get outta ‘ere, d’ya ‘ear me? We don’t want to find you ‘ere later. Stop spreading this thing about.”
Tingo lifted his hand to the side of his head and tried to salute smartly but punched himself instead. The lantern disappeared from his face and the guards retreated, their steps hurried.
“Can’t believe ‘e contaminated my boot,” Brad said from the darkness.
“We’d better be quick. It might start crawling up your leg.”
“Gosh, maybe I should take my breeches off.”
“Er…Nah! I think it’ll be fine. Why don’t you drink some of that Meths instead.”
Tingo smiled for a moment.
Then he cried for quite a while.
Then he rolled over and slurped at the cool, refreshing puddle of water until he fell asleep in it.
—–
The next day, it was business as usual outside the offices of Cloo, Dupp, Focust, Dilly, Gent and Rite. The morning rain was driving hard as the locals went about their business, and fairies, striking against the use of FAIRY LIQUID © (“Juiced-up Fairy Magic.”), chanted a meaningful mantra to the rhythmical sound of a twanged paperclip. It was highly likely the mantra was something along the lines of “Just use water, stop the fairy slaughter!” but because fairies are so small, all any passers-by heard was “squeak squeak, squeak squeak squeak squeak!”.
It was also business as usual Inside the offices of Cloo, Dupp, Focust, Dilly, Gent and Rite, where an air of professionalism wafted throughout, waning as it drifted by the men’s toilets, and dissipating completely once it reached the Quality Standards Library run by the old witch Mixxie at the back of the building. However, in reception, it was at its strongest in the way that decaffeinated coffee makes a stronger brew than water, and trying his hardest to find the motivation to impart this professionalism, while the room span, was our hero the receptionist and cleaner, Master Tingo Cong.
The fairies had started their strike early that morning and the constant, annoying squeak and rhythmical paperclip twang had beaten Tingo’s intoxicated brain into a semi-conscious state, whereby the smell of the cold urine he was lying in, and had been drinking in the night, took over and pelted him into consciousness. He’d sat up, the right side of his face all wrinkled from lying in damp for the last two hours and managed to haul himself up and off down Gutter Street just in time before his boss, Mr Govah Cloo, wandered down Lord Street to open up the offices.
He’d found a spring fountain and splashed water on his face, catching his reflection in the pool and grimacing. His ginger fringe was plastered to his forehead and there was a rolled-up piece of parchment stuck up his right nostril. He’d pulled out the semi-soggy note and unrolled it tentatively, reading it out aloud to himself.
“Cong, I despise you and can’t wait until you are gone from my firm. You are a disgrace. I’m going to go and fetch myself a bottle of sparkled water. If you are here when I return, lying in someone else’s urine, still in the same clothes you wore yesterday, though now even grubbier, and more pathetic if that was ever possible, then you will be fired! Good day. Govah Cloo x.”
Tingo had looked at the ‘x‘ for a long time, transfixed by it, wondering why it was even there. What had possessed the man? It was like an assassin’s friendly grin after they’d poisoned you. It did a number of things. It said ‘we’re all good, we’re family’ even though Cloo didn’t know Tingo; had never asked him anything about himself. It fed Cloo’s ego, saying ‘Aren’t I such a wonderful boss that I can put a kiss on the messages to my staff’. And worst of all, it said ‘Hey, I’m sexually harassing you as much as I can…within the limits (wink)’.
How did people like that make it to the top? Tingo had shuddered, screwed the message up into a tight ball and thrown it on the ground, before drinking from the spring, striving to rinse away the rancid tang that clung to his tongue like a resolute tick.
Now in the office his head was pounding. He sighed and turned the copy of yesterday’s newspaper he’d found in the reception bin back to the front page. The headline “The Princess Bribe – King to Wed” was a rather scathing article about how the King’s chosen bride, the Princess Aliza of Haerie, came with an entire realm, suggesting it wasn’t the Princess’ beautiful looks that had attracted the King. A movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him and he began the mental process of looking up. Another movement and, this time, a cough, expedited his mental processing and forced him to lift his pounding head off his hands and look over.
“Hi guys…How are Mixxie and Pinchy, today?” he asked hoarsely.
The librarian witch, and part time cleaning assistant, was sweeping with her broomstick, dressed in a sparkly, pink gown, white boots, and a black, witch’s hat.
“How am I, did you say, Ting?…Quite well, fanking you. Pinchy’s got a cold fough,” she said as he watched her bunny rabbit teddy slowly turn its head and wipe its pink nose with its paw, “and how are you, today, Ting? Rough night, was it?”
Mixxie was an old-looking elf; so old Tingo had heard rumours that she was around two hundred and twenty years old, though he had, of course, never asked her age. Over the years, he and Mixxie had grown a bond and, while she acted like a spoilt five-year-old most of the time (a juxtaposition that had taken a while to get used to), she’d become a bit of a mother figure to him. He was thankful she was still gainfully employed at Cloo, Dupp, Focust, Dilly, Gent and Rite even though her bad hearing was becoming resoundingly worse.
“Oh, you know…same old,” Tingo said watching her sweep, “though I am hoping for a quiet day today…you never know Mixxie, maybe the planets will align.”
She stopped and looked at him, putting her hand over her mouth in horror.
“What do you mean you plan to resign?!” she said.
Tingo’s face dropped at the error he’d made for it was well established that you must always speak loudly and clearly when communicating with Mixxie.
“No, no…Mixxie, I’m not resigning.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she stamped her foot. Pinchy sniffed and began to pout.
“But I don’t want you to resign. Why didn’t you tell me you were resigning? What am I going to do? I’m cleaning support…who’ll I work for now? What if fey don’t keep me on here? I can’t believe you’re springing fis on me now, at the last minute!”
Tingo stood, but before he could say anything more, Mixxie was gone, running down the hall, sobbing as she went.
The broom continued to sweep.
“Tut!” Tingo said, “Mixxie?….Mixxie!”
He made a move to go after her, worried about what she was going to do. It was all just a silly misunderstanding after all, a mild case of what he called Mixxie-mistook-sis, but when Mixxie got upset anything could happen. Last time, the whole town had suffered.
“Ding!”
He turned towards the sound of the door and looked at the improvised doorbell, which was, in essence, a fairy sitting in a cage who struck a bell whenever the door opened – and all for one bronze Dangally piece a week. There in the foyer, he saw a wet, bedraggled looking man with tatty clothing and long hair. Torn, between duty and professionalism, Tingo looked down the corridor for Mixxie but she was already gone, the sound of the library door slamming shut. He needed to get to her before she did something magically stupid in her moment of distress, but, with little choice, he turned back and hurriedly walked towards the man, hand outstretched. They shook hands.
“Welcome to Cloo, Dupp, Focust, Dilly, Gent and Rite,” he said making sure that his sense of urgency was clearly felt by the visitor, “Can I take your name please, sir?”
“Br..br…br…”
“Yes, come on, now.”
“Br…br…br…”
“Brendon ….Bryce?” Tingo offered.
“Br…Brenda,” the woman said looking Tingo in the eye, relief palpable on her face.
“Oh, sorry…um…ok…,” he raised his eyebrows as he spoke, “Brenda what?”
She looked down at her feet. Tingo could hear thumping coming from within the office walls and he cringed inside.
“Br…br…br…”
“No, I got Brenda…can I have your last name, madam.”
“Br…br…br…”
Tingo looked around the room for someone to help him but realised there was nothing in the foyer except a carafe of water for visitors, a chair, and a stencilled wall which read “Cloo, Dupp, Focust, Dilly, Gent and Rite – Simply the best, better than all the others.”
“Br…Brimstone.”
“Ah…I see. Brenda Brimstone? …”
“Pr…pr…pr…pr… ”
“Pretty terrible career choice?” Tingo mused.
“Pr…pr…pronouns…th…th…th…th…they/them.”
“Ah… Nice to meet you…them…um…I’m Tingo Cong, receptionist – I dare ask, but how can I be of service today?”
“Br…br…br…br…Bringing…”
“Uh huh, bringing…what?”
He realised he could hear shouting from the offices now.
“Br…br…br…”
“brollies?…bricks?…er…broadswords? ooh! breakfast?..” he said, smiling to himself.
The woman frowned and continued her message.
“Br…br…br…broadcast,” she said.
“Okay, so, you are Brenda Brimstone and you are bringing a broadcast…from Deepfell Castle?”
She shook her head.
“L…L…L…L…Landlord,” she said.
“My landlord?
She nodded.
There was more thumping and shouting coming from down the corridor.
Tingo had an idea. He gently placed his hand on her shoulder and directed her across to the doorbell. He tapped on the cage, and the inch-tall fairy opened the door and squeaked.
“I need you to type out a message,” Tingo said.
The fairy squeaked again and fluttered over to the note-taking wheel.
“Okay, I’ll tell you what,” Tingo said to Brenda, “Relay your message to the Fairy here and it’ll write it down for me. Ok?”
Brenda smiled, happy to oblige, and Tingo turned, relieved to be hurrying after Mixxie, hoping to get to her before something drastic happened.
He reached the end of the corridor and turned the corner to see his boss, Govah Cloo, coming out of his office and looking at the library door, which was reverberating to some angry, tribal music from inside.
“What’s that racket?!”
Cloo moved to the door and tried it. It didn’t open.
He banged on it.
“Mixxie, open up this door!”
At the sound of his voice, each of the named partners simultaneously stepped out of their offices to see what was causing the disturbance and show their feigned annoyance. Tingo sighed and cursed under his breath. He patiently waited as they went through their greeting ritual usually reserved just for senior management meetings, each one acknowledging and nodding courteously to the other in response.
“Dupp/Cloo”, “Focust/Dupp”, “Rite/Cloo”, “Dilly/Focust”, “Gent/Dilly”, “Rite/Focust”, “Rite/Dupp”, “Focust/Cloo”, “Gent/Dupp”, “Dilly/Cloo”, “Gent/Rite”, “Gent/Cloo”, “Dilly/Dupp”, “Gent/Focust”, “Rite/Dilly.”
When it was done, Tingo put his hand up.
“What is it, Shlong,” Mr Gent said.
Tingo blushed.
“Er…”
“Speak up, dwarf.”
“This is my fault. I’m sorry. I’ll sort it out. It’s simply a misunderstanding.”
In unison, the partners each tutted and rolled their eyes as one and then they dispersed. Comments like ‘Not Again!’ and ‘what sort of an organisation are we running here?’ echoed around as they headed back into their respective offices, doors shutting behind them.
Govah Cloo remained at the library entrance, his hand on the doorknob, rattling the door. He looked at Tingo and shook his head, his long, white beard snaking after it. It was Cloo’s father that had hired Tingo all those years ago.
“Do you know what, Cong? This door came off an old ship captained by my Grandfather?”
“Really, Sir?”
“Yes, I’ll wager you don’t have any seamen in your lineage?”
“I’m a foster child, Sir, so I don’t know.”
“Well, when my Grandfather passed, what was left of his ship went to auction. I managed to get onboard and get some of his personal pieces before it got taken away and this door was one of the things I took.”
“May I ask why this one, Sir?”
“Yes, quite, well the ship was full of these doors and he loved them, really loved them you know? I think it was the wood he loved, and I always remember him rubbing his hands over them. This one, though, he really touched more than any of the others.”
“Oh? Why was that, Sir?”
“It was door to the toilet.”
“Oh…I see.”
“I would have taken others, but I only managed to get this one off before the whole ship was sold and sucked through a time portal.”
He paused, reminiscing about the event. Then he rattled the door again.
“The door’s so ancient, I’m not sure if it’s just jammed shut or if it has been locked by Mixxie. I guess it needs replacing with another one, but first we’d have to get through to the old wreck…”
“Oh, I have a good rapport with Mixxie, Sir, I’m sure I can get through…”
“…No, the ship, Cong. The problem is the portal was sealed shut with a binding spell, so it’s impossible to get through. I guess the door will just have to stay as it is.”
“Oh…I see. Of course.”
Cloo tapped his hand on the doorknob as though saying goodbye to an old friend.
“Well, make sure you get this resolved, Cong. I don’t want a repeat of what happened the last time Mixxie got upset? I think it was only a month ago that people once again felt able to sit safely on a toilet. And that reminds me, when you’re done with Mixxie, get those toilets cleaned. They’re starting to smell worse than a Giant Ape’s sweaty rectum.”
“I’ll deal with it right away, Mr Cloo, Sir.”
“Yes, make sure you do.”
“Yes, Sir, Mr Cloo, Sir. I will, Sir.”
Govah walked away and Tingo cussed under his breath as he placed his hand on the knob. Putting his head close to the keyhole, he whispered through the door. Though loud music was playing, he knew Mixxie could hear him.
“Mixxie, it’s me, Tingo. Let me come in, please?”
There wasn’t a sound.
“Mixxie? I’ll order you a hot Coq’o’lassi sprinkled with wafer wattle and honey-comb?”
The lock clicked. Tingo opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.
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