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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.