Patum Peperium: Happy Bird-Day or, I Married a Teenage Audubon Guide

Poet's Coroner

Mr. Peperium

Yes, it's true. At the time of our betrothal, after my father the King of the Outer Isles had presented my future mother in law with a bejeweled snuffbox and a generous grant of land on one of the more remote islands of our realm, my father's Chancellor asked the traditional questions: Was the prince's intended bride proficient in equestrian sports? Yes, it seems that she had picked up a thing or two at a sort of stable in a place known as "Connecticut". After locating "Connecticut" on the large terrestrial globe that occupied one corner of the King's private library, the questions continued. Did the future Queen of the Outer Isles intend on providing the ruling house with an heir, or would she be one of those new Working Queens with a solid gold cell phone and a caffeine habit? No, an heir was definitely in the offing. Maybe even two. And after the royal births her future highness made it quite clear that she intended to stay home with the little prince- and princesslings. No drawbridge kids here.

So far, so good. Then the Chancellor asked the final question: Did her future majesty like animals? This was an important point, seeing as the Outer Isles are populated with more seagulls, sheep and ferrets than people. There had never been a call for free elections here for the simple reason that the call could not be made. Or so we thought.

Yes, said my bride-to-be, she did like animals. In fact, at one time back in Connecticut, she had been what was known as an "Audubon Guide". This interested my royal father, who stopped ogling the second assistant to the fifth lady in waiting long enough to ask my future wife what an Audubon Guide was. Her answer boded well for the flocks of seagulls that, as I said before, constituted our largest voting bloc.

But as so often happens on these occasions, encouraged no doubt by the warmth of her reception, my future Queen went a tad too far. She revealed that it had always been her dearest wish to someday own what she called a "Robo-Duck".

Once more tearing his attention away from the natural bustle on the second assistant, my father carefully set down his goblet of nectar and inquired what a "Robo-Duck" was. It seems that in another far-off island kingdom called England, my bride had heard tell of a man who had hollowed out a wooden duck decoy, installed a 1.5-horsepower engine with a toggle-switch remote and set about terrorizing the neighboring waterfowl. He would insinuate his remote-control Mallard into a flock or bevy of birds as they rocked gently at their moorings on a river. Then, without warning, he'd throw the throttle forward and apply all 1.5 horses. The decoy's nose would shoot skyward and a pure white rooster tail of foam shoot out to left and right. Pandemonium would, of course, ensue.

I suppose she was too busy wiping her eyes and composing herself after her fit of jolly, all-pals-together laughter to notice that it was a solo effort. There was a silence in the room you could have cut chunks out of and sold as doorstops. My father the King conferred briefly in whispers with his Chancellor. I could tell--even if my betrothed could not--that trouble loomed. I had seen that concerned look cloud my royal father's brow once before, on the evening the first assistant to the fifth lady in waiting said she had a headache.

Well, it was a near thing. But I assume that, her answers to all the other questions being satisfactory, my father and the Chancellor decided that this wish to terrorize the local waterfowl was a minor kink in an otherwise admirable character. The marriage was allowed to proceed and did so shortly thereafter, with full choral effects, at the Cathedral of Saint Sydney the Perplexed in our capital city.

No one gave any more thought to the Robo-Duck incident until the day reports came in that rafts of seagulls along the north coast of our main island were marching on the capital. Preliminary details were sketchy, but it appeared that a wooden duck was insinuating itself into their midst and, just as the stranger as being approached and asked for his card, would shoot off in a random direction trailing clouds of foam and exhaust from a small but serviceable engine.

Knowing exactly where to draw the line, the seagulls organized a political action committee. In every public park pigeons staged sit-down strikes on my father's statue. The eiders canvassed the canvasbacks. The result was a bill (pun intended) that expanded the franchise to all living creatures in the Outer Isles. Well, even my royal father could grasp the fact that, when every tse-tse fly and mollusk can cast a ballot, it wouldn't be long before our royal palace, hunting lodges and weekend retreats would be just so many addresses in the telephone directory of a brave new world. Especially those hunting lodges.

We abdicated three days later, took on the Peperium incognito, and have been living on a pretty snuggish budget ever since. But all is not lost. We do have the two heirs apparent--even if there's precious little to inherit. My father passed on several years ago, his last words being something incoherent about ducks, and left me his title and crown, which the kids now use for various indoor sports. And though she cost me my kingdom, I do love her Royal, Serene and Highly Exalted Majesty Queen What's-Her-Name the XVIII. Or, as we all know her now, Mrs. P.

Happy Birthday, J.