the oldest story

by bofa xesjum

listen carefully, chlldren, miss crenshaw began, because this is the oldest story in the world. once upon a time there was a beautiful young princess. she lived in a faraway castle at the edge of a faraway sea. that is not the oldest story in the world, albert interrupted her. the oldest story in the story of hercules and the seven monsters. well, miss crenshaw replied, there might be some difference of opinion as to what is exactly the oldest story in the world - then you shouldn’t have said, this is the oldest story in the world, should you? maybe not. in any case the story i was about to begin is one of the oldest stories… you’re a liar! a dirty liar! you tried to say it was the oldest story in the world and you were wrong! wrong! apologize! perhaps i misspoke. can we move on… we can’t move on until you admit you are a dirty liar! oh, albert, victorine spoke for the first time, do shut up, and let the poor woman get on with her story, so that she may finish it in time for tea. i don’t want to hear her namby-pamby girly story about a princess in a castle, i want to hear a red-blooded manly story about heroes defeating monsters! if it was not for heroes defeating monsters, there would not be any castles for namby-pamby princesses with long blonde hair to pine away for love in! oh, stuff it, albert, victorine replied wearily. perhaps, miss crenshaw ventured, i might try a story that has a princess and a hero, there are, in fact, no lack of such stories… no! i want a story about a hero and a monster! there was a table beside the sofa on which the two children were sitting, and on the table was a small figurine of a shepherdess. albert picked it up and threw it at miss crenshaw, hitting her on the left temple and drawing blood. just as miss crenshaw was dabbing at the blood with her handkerchief, the housekeeper, mrs george, appeaed. what is all this ruckus? mrs george demanded. can you not do your job, miss, and keep two - two, not twenty - children in line? miss crenshaw tried to explain what had happened, but mrs george cut her short. he is a high spirited child. it is up to you to control him. yes, he is very high spirited, miss crenshaw replied. i am sure he will make a most wonderful admiral someday. what was that? that is enough of your sass, miss. go to your room and pack your belongings. you are no longer employed in this household. * so it was that miss crenshaw, with a bandage on her head and clutching a medium sized portmanteau containing all her worldly belongings, found herself on the high road with dusk approaching. and not just dusk. dark storm clouds were forming on the horizon, and the temperature was dropping. and she was hungry. a few raindrops fell. at least it is not snow, miss crenshaw reflected. as she was searching in her portmanteau for her umbrella, a small one-horse carriage came up behind her, driven by a man dressed in black. the carriage stopped beside her, and miss crenshaw got a look at the driver. he was neither young nor old, neither handsome nor particularly ugly. at first she thought he might be a clergyman, but the look on his face seemed a bit too obviously nasty, untempered by piety or even hypocrisy, for that. in distress, miss? you might say that, sir. the man noticed the bandage on her head and chuckled. a lover’s quarrel, eh? not exactly, sir. i can give you a lift, if you like. that would be a very christian thing, sir. indeed. but i warn you, miss, i am a generous man. but i do not go my way through life expecting no gratitude at all. if you catch my meaning. in that case, sir, i must decline your offer. the man looked at the darkening sky and smiled. as you wish, he said, and cracked his little whip and departed. miss crenshaw was alone again. the rain began to fall harder, in windy gusts. this, she thought, is the oldest story.