A NAME WORTH REMEMBERING Digory Copperpot had been with The Seven Seasons -- Master Barth's entertainment troupe -- for only a few months, having attached himself when the group left Jondric for greener pastures elsewhere in Neuon. Their destination, LeGonne, had always been described as beautiful, and Digory knew that Jondric had little to offer him but water and more water. Even while a child, he had imagined himself the topic of critical acclaim. According to popular belief, all it took to become famous was one good performance, and Digory's mother had always considered her son to have the necessary memorable qualities. "A heart of gold," she had always whispered in his ear when tucking him to sleep, "and as honest as the day is long. No one would ever have trouble loving my little Digory." She was actually the only one who called him by his proper name. Everyone else -- even his own father and siblings -- refered to him as Diggle. If he hadn't been so sure that they were making fun of him, he wouldn't have minded much. After all, labels were just labels and nothing more. But once Digory had proven himself by becoming a famous orator, the disliked nickname would fade into ignomity forever. If only that day would soon arrive. So far, Diggle had been more of a gopher than an actor, and he knew the horses better than he knew the stage. He would simply have to work harder. He flinched as Master Barth came around the side of the gaily decorated wagon. Although the whiskers on Barth's chin had long resembled old campfire ash, his face was ageless and blank enough to hide behind the persona of any character required in a production. This time, Barth actually looked a bit pensive. "William didn't pull off his lines." The master stared at the quiet youth. "Diggle," he said, "I want you to have a shot at it." "Me?" said Digory. "I'm allowed to audition? Really?" "Of course, you!" replied Barth. "Who else would I be speaking to out here?" He was momentarily interrupted by a herd of wandering musicians. "You think I'm that good?" beamed the poet. There was silence for a long second. "Alright, I'll be honest," said Barth. "Everyone else has already tried. You're our last hope." "Oh dear," mumbled Digory. Polishing a newly purchased shirtful of apples, Gustav leaned towards the downcast youth. "Don't fret, Diggle, just tell the story about Sir Darius, who slew that Dragon back in 232 AD -- The big RED Dragon! Everyone loves that tale." "Oh, Diggle, don't listen to that fool!" countered nearby Clancis, putting down his recorder. "It's the Ballad of the Edmund Hesphratus or nothing. LeGonne thrives it." "Oh dear," mumbled Digory again, this time absently scratching at his nose. Despite his desire to orate, thinking up new rhymes always made him want to sneeze. "Now look, just leave Diggle alone," snapped Barth. "After all, you two fared only as well as anyone else -- which is to say, not well at all." Clancis yanked disgustedly at Gustav's shirt sleeve. "It was HIS fault -- HIS clothes that turned off the Duke. I TOLD him to wear purple and yellow, but he insisted on wearing simple blue. Blue, blue, blue, that's all Gus ever wants to wear. I said, 'Gus, the Duke expects better than blue, EVERYONE wears blue into his court, he'd probably really like to see something besides BLUE for a change,' but Gus would have none of it. He never listens to wise old Clancis. He always seems to know better. And now look at us." "Shuddup," replied Gustav, tossing an apple into the air. Within a few seconds, he was juggling six of them quite easily. "What do clothes have to do with it? Maybe a trick of the hand, not one of the tongue, would have appeased the Duke more. Behold!" Without missing a beat, Gustav took a large bite out of one apple and then sent it smoothly back up on its arc. "It's been done before," pointed out Master Barth, "although I'll take pains to applaud if you manage to eat them all down to the cores first." Gus suddenly convulsed, spitting his bite of apple on the ground. The other fruit fell out of the sky one by one, smacking him consecutively in the head. "By Iedras," he yelled, rubbing his hairline, "what IS this? There's fresher fruit in my uncle's compost heap!" Clancius stared down at the bitten apple. "Uggh. Is that really half a worm?" "Oh dear," said Digory, wandering out across the courtyard. Perform for the Duke? The DUKE? Sheer excitement had given way to confusion. What in the world was he ever going to do? "The other way, Diggle." "What?" Barth grabbed Digory's shoulders and spun him around. "Over here. The keep's in this direction." "Oh," replied Digory, heading down his new path. "Be bold, Diggle," continued Master Barth, "and try your best. If you fail, we're no worse off than before! We'll just have to flee to Harndin." "Right," said Digory, catching his foot on the bottom step. "And put on a new shirt!" yelled Clancius. "Anything but blue!" "Oh, right." Digory mounted the staircase. "Look, I TOLD you that blue had nothing to do with it!" he heard Gustav say. "You dolt, blue has EVERYTHING to do with it!" "Of course," nodded Digory to himself, and went inside. Earlier there had been a long line of entertainers waiting to see the Duke. Now the afternoon was growing late, and after so many failures everyone seemed inclined to reconsider their talents before reauditioning for the Duke's affections. The great hall was almost empty. Guards at the door frisked Digory for weapons. It tickled, and at first Diggory giggled loud enough to draw stares. He distracted himself with thoughts of the task at hand. Eventually he was directed down a long hallway to a spacious room beset with tapestries. At the room's far end sprawled a large table. Seated at the table were a number of people in fine clothes. "Darius," mumbled Digory to himself as he shuffled forward. "Darius, Darius, Darius." Now how did that story go? He should have listened more closely the last time it had been told. Had Barth been the one to tell it? If so, it would have been well done, for Barth was so experienced in performing for authorities. Oh, why hadn't he paid more attention? Digory was now approaching the far end of the table. The man seated squarely in the middle looked very important and was wearing an expensive jeweled circlet. "Announcing Darius the poet!" cried a nearby man in a tabard, making him jump. "Digory!" gasped Digory, very surprised. "What?" "Digory," the youth repeated. "My name's Digory." The crier looked irritated. "Then why did you say your name was Darius?" Digory stared. "What?" This was getting more confusing by the minute. The man wearing the circlet -- presumably Duke Torrian -- rolled his eyes. He looked as excited as a man inspecting courtyard tile for mildew. "Darius, Digory -- whatever. Say your piece, son. There's a lot on my plate today." Digory now turned to stare at the Duke. "Plate?" he said slowly. "Your performance!" hissed one of the seated men. "Give the DUKE your PERFORMANCE!" "Oh," said Digory. "Right!" He cleared his throat, smiling. This was finally his big moment -- his chance to turn his life completely around. After his exquisite recitation of Sir Darius' battle to the Duke of LeGonne, Digory would become very popular. Gus and Clancy wouldn't make fun of him anymore. And Master Barth would no doubt allow him to recite a story at EVERY performance -- not just the ones to which no one had actually been invited. After this momentuous occassion, Digory Copperpot would be on his way to becoming the most reknown bard in the history of Neuon -- just as his mother had always reassured him. She would be so pleased. She had spoken often of this day. But when Digory opened his mouth, he suddenly realized that his mind was still completely, utterly blank. There was nothing there. Whatever bits of story he had recalled concerning Sir Darius and the Dragon, they had turned tail at the first sign of danger and left him without anything in their place. He had nothing whatsoever to say. Digory's tongue suddenly felt very large and awkward, and his nose tickled as if he were about to sneeze. Digory shut his mouth. "Well?" said the Duke. Digory stared at the Duke, his adam's apple vigorously bobbing up and down. "Is this some sort of new pantomine?" asked the Duke. "If it is, it's not very good, you know." Digory's tongue stuck to his palate like old jam. "Not another one," sighed the Duke, turning back to the papers in front of him. "I really need to get back to work." "How dare you waste the Duke's time!" hissed the advisor who had spoken earlier. "He's a very busy man!" Digory wobbled on his feet. "You and your troupe should leave this city at once!" the advisor continued, waving to someone behind Digory. He seemed very upset. Digory rubbed very hard at his nose. The clanking of armor approached him from behind. Digory opened his mouth, and said -- quite distinctly -- "Sneef." "What?" said the advisor. The sound of moving armor ceased. The Duke looked up from his papers. "Sneef," sniffled Digory. Once the words climbed into his mouth, they tumbled from his lips like men plummeting from a high roof. "I haf to sneef, efery word I rhyme... 'cauf my nof twiffles all the time." He finished with a loud achoo. "Oh my!" gasped the advisor. "Oh dear," mumbled Digory, shutting his mouth. Sneef? He had certainly botched this one! Why had he been thinking about his nose? Why did his nose always have to itch when he got nervous? His mother had always told him to bring a pocket handkerchief. Digory wondered whether the guards could catch him if he turned now and ran out the double doors. Sneezing in the Duke's presence certainly couldn't be a crime -- at least, not one worthy of death by sword -- but he wasn't so sure about poetic gibberish. Master Barth would have him caring for horses for the next ten years. The Duke stared at him, intently -- and then smiled. Not just smiled but beamed, like the sun peeking over the keep battlements at daybreak. It was the nicest smile Digory had seen in quite awhile. "Now that's the funniest thing that I've heard lately," said Duke Torrian. "Not exactly what I had in mind, but still... Is there any more?" Digory responded before he could catch himself. "It dwains, my nofe, it's not my fault it twickles downt my chin, it's NOT!" He grimaced when he realized how the last two words had come out. This time the Duke actually laughed. "You know, this is EXACTLY the sort of thing Ismeralda likes. She'll only be 11 tomorrow, but everyone else insists on these dreadful epic drones and musicals that could even put stalwart Justins here to sleep. Silly poems might be the answer for a young girl. Where have you been, son? Part of Barth's ensemble, I take it? Get that old geezer in here -- we'll have work for the troupe yet, if they're half as fast on their feet as you are!" "But Michael..." whispered a nearby clergyman. "No but's about it, Bishop. Someone rustle up some food for the boy. He's as scrawny as an old alley cat -- probably hasn't been fed for a month." "Oh, dear," said Digory. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He hadn't recited Darius, and he hadn't made much sense, and he hadn't even taken off his blue shirt for a purple one, but the Duke had liked him anyway. Master Barth would be shocked. Gus and Clancy would be angry -- but quietly jealous. And soon the name of Digory the poet would become the most renown in Neuon within a matter of weeks. Despite his previous embarrassment, he now found himself smiling. "So what do you call it?" asked the Duke. "It?" asked Digory. "The poem. What's its name?" Digory thought. He thought for almost a minute before answering, to make sure he had gotten it right. "Sneef!" he said at last. "It's called Sneef!" He was so relieved that he forgot to stop talking. "By Diggle," he added proudly. -------------------------------------------------- (c) 1997, appearing in The Link (formerly The VIP Informer), September 1997. Material to be used solely in regards to examining my credentials for employment.