Carlos Goes Way Down Yonder
by Brian Morrison
Genre: Children
Swearwords: None.
Description: The second adventure of Carlos. This time he visits Blue Orleans and has a run-in with the Witch Queen.
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‘People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw bones,’ said Carlos De Vase. He was talking to Glassie, his little bottle-dog.
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie. That was the only sound that the bottle-dog could make, but inside her little doggy mind she was saying, “Throw the bone for me one more time, master. Please, please just throw the bone.”
Carlos was an oddly shaped blue coloured bottle. He and Glassie lived in a fabulous apartment on the very edge of the city of Glass Vegas. His living quarters were also his art studio. Carlos was a very famous artist. The mayor of Glass Vegas had recently presented him with an “ism” award. A really high honour for bottles such as he. “Vase-ism” was very much in fashion across the Land of Plenty. As well as being blue in colour, Carlos was a very handsome bottle, with a long waxed moustache and a large pear-shaped hole through his middle.
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie once more, but her master had other things on his mind. He was studying a newspaper article about a place called Blue Orleans.
‘How would you like to go way down yonder, Glassie?’ remarked Carlos, ‘I have a couple of friends down there; Muscle Jar and his wife, Pickle. I haven’t seen them for such a long time. This newspaper article covers a story about a lady bottle called Marie L’Beau. They say that she has special powers called “Voodoo”- How wonderful and mysterious!’
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie.
Carlos had a passion for all things that were ‘wonderful’ and an even bigger passion for anything ‘mysterious’. It was the artist in him that made him feel this way. The paintings that he created in his studio were full of magic and mystery. There were bound to be lots of new subjects to study way down yonder. The city of Blue Orleans was a place that he had always longed to visit. Glassie would go with him of course. She had been his constant companion ever since the day that her old owner had presented her to Carlos on a magnificent sailing ship called Slipknot. Now all that was left for him to do was to contact his old friend, Muscle Jar.
Marie L’Beau shook the glass beads that hung around her slim bottle neck. They made a shrill sound as they rattled against her dark brown glass body. Like Carlos, she was an oddly shaped bottle. She actually resembled a bottle that had been split down the middle. There was a good reason for this; Maria L’Beau was one half of a twin decanter. She was filled with lime cordial and her twin sister, Dolly, was full of grapefruit juice. They both lived in a run down shack in Bon-Bon Street. Between them they shared four legs and two arms. Each bottle had two legs, but whilst Marie had only a right arm, her twin sister, Dolly, had been born with a left arm. Dolly was much more gentle and refined. She would often be seen walking around the streets in the city’s French Quarter, singing to herself and lazily spinning a pink parasol on her shoulder. Some locals called it her cocktail umbrella.
Marie on the other hand was a troubled bottle. She practiced voodoo, wore lots and lots of glass bead necklaces, and sang crazy sounding high pitched songs that she believed were magic spells. She was the Witch Queen of Blue Orleans.
‘Let me get that for you, Pickle,’ said Muscle Jar to his wife. She was struggling to carry three heavy bags of shopping that she had picked up at the downtown market. Muscle Jar had incredibly strong arms. They were rippling with well tuned and bulging muscles. For a sea food jar, he was well named.
‘Oh my,’ said Pickle, ‘that was a struggle, but at least we now have some goodies to eat for supper during the festival week. The market will be far too busy to visit at the weekend with the Mardi Gras parade in full flow. We can enjoy some Jambalaya, Crawfish pie and File Gumbo.’
Muscle said, ‘That sounds like music to my ears. In fact, I should really write a song about it.’
‘Don’t bother, Muscle. I have heard you singing in the dishwasher. You do not have a gift in that department, that’s for sure. In fact I would say that only the Witch Queen of Blue Orleans has a worse singing voice.’
Muscle made a face, ‘Oh you can be so cruel sometimes – or is it Creole. Yes indeed Mrs Jar you can be a Creole Creole wife sometimes!’
‘Your jokes are almost as bad as your singing,’ said Pickle. ‘Now help me prepare our evening meal.’
‘Okay I will, but first I have some exciting news to tell you.’
‘Go on then.’
‘My old friend Carlos has been in touch from Glass Vegas. He is planning to visit for the festival.’
‘Oh that is wonderful news,’ said Pickle.
‘There’s more good news. He now has a little bottle-dog called Glassie. He asked if he could bring her along too.’
‘A little dog? - Perfect! This will make our festival week all the more special.’ said Pickle. ‘I can’t wait to see him again.’
Muscle Jar had a very important job down at the city’s Bottle and Jar Infirmary. Because of his immensely strong arms, he was employed to loosen all the bottle tops and jar lids of the patients attending for treatment. The glass surgeons would then go to work with the excellent repair jobs that they do. It goes without saying that Muscle’s other task was to reapply all the lids and bottle tops back on the correct patients and ensure that they were all nice and tightly sealed. There had been a steady rise in cracked jars and bottles recently. It was worrying for the city. No one seemed to know what was causing all these injuries.
Carlos was in a singing mood. ‘Big wheel keep on turning,’ he sang; trying without success to stay in tune. Glassie and he were packed up and all aboard the Rubberdee Lee steam train heading south. They were moving pretty fast at around ninety-five clickety-clacks a minute. ‘Rollin’ on the river,’ sung Carlos, whilst making piston movements with his arms. He nudged Glassie with his elbow, ‘Are you looking forward to rolling on the Muddydippi River, Glassie?’
Glassie had very little knowledge of bottle language, but she did recognise certain things such as “Dinner” and “Walkies”. The phrase “Rolling on the Muddydippi” seemed familiar to her, even if it only created an image in her mind of rolling about in the mud and getting totally filthy. That sounded like fun, so she responded in her usual way. ‘Hoot!’ she said, in an excited fashion, but to Carlos it just sounded like, “Hoot”.
‘Tickets, please,’ said the ticket collecting bottle. He was elderly and his glass was sagging in places. He had a small slot in his chest where passengers deposited coins in exchange for train tickets. Carlos had already purchased his fare back in Glass Vegas.
‘Good day, Mr Ticket collector. We seem to be making excellent progress. How many knots do you think we are doing?’
‘Knots?’ replied the collector, ‘I know not about knots - nothing at all. I did not attend the Boy Scouts movement when I was a young bottle.’
‘So you know not about knots? Not a ditty? - In fact a big nought!’
‘No, I never did know nothing about knots, not never,’ said the collector. ‘But ninety-five clickety-clacks equates to a quick click quota at today’s current calculations.’
‘I bet it does,’ said Carlos, ‘but betting’s not my bag.’
‘Hoot!’ hollered a happy Glassie, who still had mud in her mind.
It was a long journey.
At the very moment that Carlos was attempting to sing on the train, a certain Witch Queen of Blue Orleans was also wailing in ever increasing
scales that never seemed to end. The furniture in the shack rattled. The windows shook and vibrated. The panes of glass tried to complain to Marie L’Beau, but she didn’t hear them. Her rising tone peaked with a screeching noise that made the local bottle-cats dive for cover.
‘Please stop’ cried the jars in the spice rack, who were feeling rather dizzy by now. Marie L’Beau carried on. She was preparing a spell for the Mardi Gras, and nothing or no bottle was going to stop her.
Then just as she fell silent, a loud cracking noise could be heard from outside the shack door. The vibrations from the Witch Queen’s singing had caused a three-inch crack to appear on the body of a young jar of honey who just happened to be walking past the shack at that moment. Marie’s twin sister, Dolly, was first on the scene as she had just turned the corner into Bon-Bon street.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Dolly, as she stepped over the sticky substance that was leaking onto the sidewalk from Honey Jar. ‘We will need to get you along to the infirmary right away.’
Inside the shack, Marie L’Beau sniggered darkly as she peered through a gap in the shingle wall. ‘So now I have proof that it works.’
A large medicine bottle, with a spinning blue lamp attached to his cork, came crashing through the infirmary door. ‘Incoming!’ he yelled.
Muscle Jar, who had just come on duty, jumped to his feet. ‘What is the injury this time?’ he asked.
‘Same as all the rest I’m afraid,’ replied the medicine bottle. ‘A split in the glass. No reason for it. She didn’t collide with anything. It just happened for no apparent reason.’
Muscle Jar was suddenly distracted. He recognised an old colleague standing just behind the injured Honey Jar. Dolly L’Beau had worked with him before at the infirmary and they had become good friends in the past.
Muscle called over to her, ‘Well hello, Dolly. It’s so nice to see you back where you belong.’
Dolly smiled and waved with her one arm. ‘Good to see you too, Muscle.’
‘You’re looking swell, Dolly.’
‘Thanks, and you are looking good too,’ said Dolly, her Grapefruit juice beginning to blush ever so slightly.
‘You’re still glowing, I see,’ said Muscle.
‘Excuse me, sir, but we have a patient here that needs attention,’ said the medicine bottle.
‘Oh I am so sorry,’ said Muscle. ‘Please forgive me – so it is the same injury again? This is becoming more and more strange.’
Dolly helped little Honey Jar onto the bed. ‘I think I may be able to help clear this up.’
‘No that’s OK,’ said Muscle, ‘You don’t work here anymore. We will tend to the cleaning up.’
‘No, that is not what I meant. I think I know why there are so many cracked jars and bottles attending the infirmary. In fact I am certain that I know the reason. It has all to do with my silly twin sister, Marie. She thinks that she is a witch and she can call on the powers of the Voodoo spirits.’
‘She always was quite odd, I thought,’ said Muscle, then he had a sudden panic attack, ‘b-but when I say odd . . . I-I mean, she is -’
‘A crazy bottle?’
‘Well, not crazy, but perhaps a little strange.’
Dolly smiled, ‘You don’t need to watch your words just because she is my twin sister, Muscle. I think that she needs help to make her believe that she is not a witch, but I don’t know how it can be done. It is the high singing that does all the damage. Everything in the shack vibrates and eventually something cracks. Marie believes it is her special powers, but it is really just her voice, but she won’t listen to me.’
‘I see,’ said Muscle, ‘that makes sense. Do you know what we need here, Dolly?’
‘What?’
‘We need a hero to step in.’
Just then the door opened. ‘Did someone say “A hero”?’ asked Carlos De Vase.
It was an unfortunate fact of life that Glassie’s favourite food just happened to be honey. It became slightly embarrassing for everyone involved. Muscle Jar eventually used his strong arms to prise the dog off of little Honey jar.
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie, his tongue all sticky and sweet.
‘Now now, Glassie,’ said Carlos in a scolding tone, ‘you can’t just walk into a hospital and start to eat the patients. That is not very nice, is it?’
‘Hoot!’
‘She says that she is sorry,’ said Carlos, pretending to understand one “hoot” from another “hoot”.
‘That is OK,’ said Muscle. ‘Perhaps if you could take her for a walk down by the river, we could meet up later and catch up on all that you have been up to.’
Carlos said, ‘That is an excellent idea. I will show Glassie the Muddydippi River and then we will call in at your home.’
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie.
‘Before I go,’ continued Carlos, ‘could you introduce me to this delightful looking lady?’
When Muscle presented Miss Dolly L’Beau to Carlos, he extended his right hand, but as Dolly had only a left arm, she could not return the greeting. They eventually managed to do a kind of awkward upside down handshake.
The vacation to Blue Orleans hadn’t started off exactly as Carlos had hoped, but he still had a feeling that he was going to enjoy himself in this wonderful city. It had everything that he and Glassie could ask for; lots to paint, lots to see, wonderful sounds, smells and views all around the city. He was also very excited at the thought of taking part in the festival parade. He had heard so many good stories about Mardi Gras. However, he had no idea that a certain Witch Queen was planning to do everything in her voodoo power to ruin it for everyone.
‘Let’s go and buy some Muddydippi mud pie, my little friend,’ he said.
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie.
The preparations for Festival Week were well underway. Bottles and Jars in all corners of the city were making costumes for the parade. It was always a very colourful affair. In and around the French quarter, tourists were flocking to the Jars clubs to hear the music and taste the delicious Cajun food. Every building in Bon-Bon Street was freshly painted. Flags and banners were hung from the upper floor balconies. All except for one rundown shack; the home of the L’Beau sisters. Marie had forbidden her twin sister to decorate the shack. It was dull and drab, and the shingle walls were dry and warped. It looked awful to every bottle’s eyes . . . all except, that is, for one particular blue coloured bottle. The sight of the shack stopped him in his tracks.
‘Well what have we got here, Glassie?’ said an excited Carlos De Vase, ‘This is the real Blue Orleans. This old shack is beautiful! I must do a painting of it right now.’
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie.
Carlos immediately set up his portable easel in the middle of the street and began to mix paints on his palette. ‘I will call this painting “Le petit bijou”. I can give it to Muscle and Pickle as a thank you present for allowing us to stay with them for the Festival Week.’
Glassie sat down in the street next to her master and scratched behind her left ear. It made a tinkling sound, like a glass bell. They had already enjoyed a walk along the riverside. They had seen the big wheels turning on the river boats and had tasted the best Muddydippi mud pie ever.
‘I got the blues,’ sang an old dusty brown bottle who was sitting in a doorway across the street. ‘I got the blues,’ he sang again as he plucked at his banjo. ‘I got the blues way down in my shoes.’
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie.
‘You don’t want to go paintin’ dat there ol’ shack, mister,’ said the old dusty brown bottle. ‘Dat there shack, he is haunted.’
‘He is what?’ said Carlos.
‘He haunted, I say.’ The old dusty brown bottle rose to his feet. Carlos noticed that his shoes were not blue after all. As a matter of fact, he didn’t have any shoes, just old dusty brown feet.
It took quite some time for the old dusty brown bottle to finish standing upright. He seemed to be very, very old indeed. He looked at Carlos with a puzzled expression. ‘I see that you got the blues too,’ he said eventually.
‘I have always been this colour,’ replied Carlos. ‘I come from a family of blue bottles.’
‘And do all of your family have a hole through their middle like you do?’
‘No sir, only me,’ replied Carlos.
The old bottle couldn’t resist passing his old brown hand through the opening. ‘Well I’ll be . . .’ he declared. Then he yelped in pain as Glassie’s jaws closed around his old brown fingers. ‘Ouch,’ he squealed, ‘I think that the Witch Queen has already put a spell on your dog.’
‘The Witch Queen?’ said Carlos, pulling the old dusty brown bottle’s hand back out through the hole in his middle; Glassie’s jaws still attached, ‘Can you tell me about her?’
‘I surely can,’ said the old dusty brown bottle, ‘if you could just tell your dog to give me my hand back.’
Carlos did as he was asked and Glassie dropped to the street again. ‘Hoot!’ she said, menacingly, which again just sounded like, “Hoot”.
Carlos said, ‘So where does she stay – this Witch Queen?’
‘You are doing a painting of her house right now,’ said the old dusty brown bottle.
Carlos turned and looked at Marie L’Beau’s rundown shack, ‘Oh how wonderfully mysterious,’ he said.
There was so much to talk about over the dinner table that evening. Muscle and Pickle served up some tasty traditional food and Glassie gnawed on a meaty bone.
‘How was little Honey Jar?’ Carlos asked. ‘I am so sorry about Glassie’s behaviour earlier.’
‘That is OK. She has had her repair and is now back at home resting,’ said Muscle. He then repeated what Dolly had told him about her twin sister, and the damage that she was doing.
‘I didn’t even realise when you introduced us earlier,’ said Carlos. ‘So that delightful lady is the Witch Queen’s twin sister?’
‘Yes, she is,’ said Pickle Jar, as she began to clear the table, ‘but they are not alike in any way. Marie is the troubled one.’
‘I know,’ said Carlos. ‘An old brown bottle that I met today told me some sad tales. Why doesn’t someone talk to her? What has made her feel that way?’
‘The local bottles and jars are afraid to,’ said Pickle, ‘they fear that she may truly have voodoo powers. Nobody wants a spell cast on themselves or their families?’
Muscle said, ‘Dolly told me that she is planning to ruin the Mardi Gras parade. It is very worrying.’
‘Hooth!’ said Glassie, who was choking slightly on the bone.
Carlos stroked the ends of his long waxed moustache with his fingers. He often did this when he was being very thoughtful.
‘You look very thoughtful,’ said Muscle Jar.
‘Mmm,’ replied Carlos, thoughtfully, ‘do you have any books on voodoo or black magic?’
‘I don’t, but I could look it up for you. I have a Gloogle App on my shell phone.’
‘Perfect!’ said Carlos.
Marie L’Beau was having a morning off from creating voodoo spells and singing practice. She had decided to save herself for the big day at the weekend, and, besides, she had a large pile of ironing to get through. Yes, even Witch Queens had to do ironing. She had previously tried to create a voodoo spell that would make the pile of clothes self-iron or even disappear, but all her efforts had failed so far. Dolly, her twin sister, seemed to be avoiding her more and more these days. Marie wasn’t very pleased with her. Her sister didn’t believe in voodoo. What a ridiculous notion to have, thought Marie. Of course voodoo is real. She would just need to work a little harder to convince her, that’s all. Her thoughts were distracted by a banging at the door. It was very odd for a bottle or jar to come calling to the L’Beau shack; very odd indeed. She put her ear to the door and listened for a moment, and then called out with her best Witch’s voice, ‘Who calls at the home of the Witch Queen of Blue Orleans? Answer now, or be damned forever.’ That should do the trick, she thought to herself.
A voice answered from the other side of the door. ‘I am Professor Test-tube from the University of Gallus Texus. I must speak to you urgently.’
Marie opened the door slowly. The rusty hinges creaked like a yawning dog. Standing before her on the step was an oddly shaped blue bottle with a hole through his middle.
‘You don’t look like a test-tube to me, mister,’ she said sharply, ‘and how come you got that hole through your middle? Have you been blowed up or somethin’?’
‘Appearances can be deceiving,’ said Carlos, trying his best to deceive the Witch Queen.
‘And why you got that hound? I don’t like no hounds around me. They bring bad spells – an’ sometimes bad smells too.’
‘Hoot!’ said the hound, disguising his bark as best he could.
The Professor said, ‘Miss L’Beau . . . can I call you Miss L’Beau?’
‘You can call me “Witchy”,’ said the Witch.
‘Alright Witchy, I need to inform you that we have had a warning that there is a hurricane heading this way. We at the University strongly advise you to leave the city of Blue Orleans. They are naming it “Hurricane Hoolie”’.
‘Hoolie Smoolie!’ said Marie L’Beau. ‘I ain’t goin’ nowhere, and that’s a fact! How d’you nutcases know these things anyhow? You got a crystal ball at your fancy pants university up there in Gallus? Ain’t no match fir my magic powers, whatever it is.’
‘Actually, it is our hound that is the expert.’
‘Say what!’ said Marie L’Beau.
Let me introduce you to our wonder-dog, Glassie. She can sniff out a hurricane from two thousand miles away.’
‘Hoot!’ said the very proud wonder-dog.
Marie L’Beau threw her head back and screamed with laughter. It was a high pitched scream that caused the windows to rattle in their frames. Carlos could feel his teeth vibrating. Even the wonder-dog was becoming alarmed. She hid behind her master’s legs. Carlos could now see at first hand that the Witch Queen’s voice had the power to crack glass bottles and jars with ease. He now understood how difficult this job was going to be. His search through the Gloogle App had been pointless. Marie L’Beau had no special powers of voodoo or black magic; only a very strong voice that could break glass. But something had to be done before the Mardi Gras parade. He had to find a way stop the Witch Queen. Marie L’Beau slammed the door shut with her one arm. He could hear her continuing to laugh inside the shack as she returned to her ironing chores.
On the Friday evening of the festival week, Carlos became suddenly busy with Pickle Jar’s sewing box. He and Glassie had thoroughly enjoyed themselves for four days. Muscle and Pickle had taken them on a riverboat trip, they had danced with some dishes in Basin Street and they had enjoyed the most delicious Cajun food that one could imagine, although some of the hot spicy sauces didn’t agree with Glassie too much. Her usual “Hoot” had been reduced to just a simple “Hoo”.
‘You don’t need to help with the festival decorations,’ said Pickle. ‘Everything has been made already. We have created banners from our old bed clothes and have stitched sequins onto old curtains. We will have plenty of flags to wave.’
‘Oh I am not making a banner or a flag,’ said Carlos, ‘I have been studying that Gloogle App on your shell phone again. I am making something very special.’
‘Are you really?’ said Pickle. ‘Is it a secret?’
‘Not a secret to us, Pickle, but a certain Witch Queen of Blue Orleans is going to get a taste of her own voodoo medicine.’ Carlos then revealed to Pickle and her husband Muscle what he had been making.
It had finally arrived; the day that every bottle and jar in Blue Orleans had been waiting a whole year for. The city was a spectacular sight. It was so unbelievably colourful. Bands were playing, jars were singing, bottles were dancing in the streets. Flags, banners and streamers were draped from the balconies in the French Quarter. Glass beads were dangling around the neck of every bottle in the city. It had all the makings of a splendid celebration. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about the Witch Queen and her threats. Nothing could go wrong. Not on this day. Not on the day of the Mardi Gras celebration.
Inside her shack on Bon-Bon Street, Marie L’Beau had been in good spirits too. She had been practicing her musical scales and she felt that her voice was just right. The parade was only two streets away. She could hear them playing their instruments and laughing and singing. I am sure they won’t mind if I join in, she thought to herself, especially the singing.
Then, for the second time in a week, there was a knocking sound at the front door of the shack.
‘Who is it?’ she cried with a witchy voice.
‘Woohoo!’ was the reply.
‘Woohoo who?’ said the Witch Queen.
‘Hoolie woohoo!’ said the voice.
‘Hoolie woohoo who – Oh enough of this nonsense,’ said the Witch Queen, and she opened the door. There before her stood two of the strangest creatures she had ever seen. They had feathers in their hair and bones through their noses. Their glass bodies were covered with glowing paints. The taller one had something in his hand. It was a rag doll; a doll that looked quite familiar.
‘I am the Spirit of Hurricane Hoolie,’ said the tall one. He shook the rag doll in front of the Witch Queen’s eyes. It was at that moment that Marie L’Beau realised that the doll had been made in her image.
‘That looks like me,’ she said, her eyes focusing on the odd shaped cloth doll that had only one arm. Then she saw the large hat pin that the Hoolie Spirit was grasping in his other hand. ‘What do think you are doing?’ she asked.
‘I will show you,’ said the Hoolie Spirit, who was really Carlos in disguise. He pushed the hat pin into the cloth doll’s neck. ‘Now you are done for, Witchy. Now you won’t be able to sing. I have made this voodoo doll in your image and I have cast my spell on your voice.’
Marie L’Beau placed her one hand on her glass hip and said, ‘I know who you are mister! You are no Hoolie Spirit. You are that blue bottle that came visiting here the other day. So you thought that you could fool me with your fancy dress costume and silly little rag voodoo doll!’
Carlos knew that his trickery had failed miserably. The Witch Queen hadn’t fallen for his voodoo doll threat. It was just as well that he had thought of plan number two. Marie L’Beau was just about to scream with laughter when the second voodoo spirit jumped on her. This one had incredibly strong muscular arms. With a quick powerful twist, Muscle Jar loosened Marie L’Beau’s cork just enough to pour in the hot Cajun sauce that had caused little Glassie to lose her voice the night before.
‘What do you think you are doo hoo hoo hoo . . .’ her voice faded away to a whisper. Muscle jar quickly replaced her cork and said, ‘There is just enough hot Cajun sauce in there to calm your voice down to a whisper, but be warned, Marie L’Beau . . . I will add more if you attempt to cause any more bottle or jar injuries.’
Just then, the parade entered Bon-Bon Street. Marie L’Beau watched with a tear in her glass eye as they filed past, singing, dancing and waving their flags and banners.
‘That is the real spirit of Blue Orleans,’ said Carlos. ‘The spirit of the people. Nothing can defeat that. Not black magic or voodoo.’
Carlos knew that it may take a week or two, but he was confident that with the help of Dolly, Muscle and Pickle, the Witch Queen of Blue Orleans could be transformed into a good member of the community.
. . . And that is exactly what happened. Carlos was so pleased when he opened a message in a bottle a few weeks later at his home in Glass Vegas. Marie and Dolly had been out together more and more in the streets of Blue Orleans. The Witch Queen had gone. In her place was Marie L’Beau, the voice tutor. She had taken on the role of a visiting singing coach in the local schools.
‘I so love happy endings,’ said Carlos.
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie, who had found her voice again.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The second adventure of Carlos. This time he visits Blue Orleans and has a run-in with the Witch Queen.
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‘People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw bones,’ said Carlos De Vase. He was talking to Glassie, his little bottle-dog.
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie. That was the only sound that the bottle-dog could make, but inside her little doggy mind she was saying, “Throw the bone for me one more time, master. Please, please just throw the bone.”
Carlos was an oddly shaped blue coloured bottle. He and Glassie lived in a fabulous apartment on the very edge of the city of Glass Vegas. His living quarters were also his art studio. Carlos was a very famous artist. The mayor of Glass Vegas had recently presented him with an “ism” award. A really high honour for bottles such as he. “Vase-ism” was very much in fashion across the Land of Plenty. As well as being blue in colour, Carlos was a very handsome bottle, with a long waxed moustache and a large pear-shaped hole through his middle.
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie once more, but her master had other things on his mind. He was studying a newspaper article about a place called Blue Orleans.
‘How would you like to go way down yonder, Glassie?’ remarked Carlos, ‘I have a couple of friends down there; Muscle Jar and his wife, Pickle. I haven’t seen them for such a long time. This newspaper article covers a story about a lady bottle called Marie L’Beau. They say that she has special powers called “Voodoo”- How wonderful and mysterious!’
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie.
Carlos had a passion for all things that were ‘wonderful’ and an even bigger passion for anything ‘mysterious’. It was the artist in him that made him feel this way. The paintings that he created in his studio were full of magic and mystery. There were bound to be lots of new subjects to study way down yonder. The city of Blue Orleans was a place that he had always longed to visit. Glassie would go with him of course. She had been his constant companion ever since the day that her old owner had presented her to Carlos on a magnificent sailing ship called Slipknot. Now all that was left for him to do was to contact his old friend, Muscle Jar.
Marie L’Beau shook the glass beads that hung around her slim bottle neck. They made a shrill sound as they rattled against her dark brown glass body. Like Carlos, she was an oddly shaped bottle. She actually resembled a bottle that had been split down the middle. There was a good reason for this; Maria L’Beau was one half of a twin decanter. She was filled with lime cordial and her twin sister, Dolly, was full of grapefruit juice. They both lived in a run down shack in Bon-Bon Street. Between them they shared four legs and two arms. Each bottle had two legs, but whilst Marie had only a right arm, her twin sister, Dolly, had been born with a left arm. Dolly was much more gentle and refined. She would often be seen walking around the streets in the city’s French Quarter, singing to herself and lazily spinning a pink parasol on her shoulder. Some locals called it her cocktail umbrella.
Marie on the other hand was a troubled bottle. She practiced voodoo, wore lots and lots of glass bead necklaces, and sang crazy sounding high pitched songs that she believed were magic spells. She was the Witch Queen of Blue Orleans.
‘Let me get that for you, Pickle,’ said Muscle Jar to his wife. She was struggling to carry three heavy bags of shopping that she had picked up at the downtown market. Muscle Jar had incredibly strong arms. They were rippling with well tuned and bulging muscles. For a sea food jar, he was well named.
‘Oh my,’ said Pickle, ‘that was a struggle, but at least we now have some goodies to eat for supper during the festival week. The market will be far too busy to visit at the weekend with the Mardi Gras parade in full flow. We can enjoy some Jambalaya, Crawfish pie and File Gumbo.’
Muscle said, ‘That sounds like music to my ears. In fact, I should really write a song about it.’
‘Don’t bother, Muscle. I have heard you singing in the dishwasher. You do not have a gift in that department, that’s for sure. In fact I would say that only the Witch Queen of Blue Orleans has a worse singing voice.’
Muscle made a face, ‘Oh you can be so cruel sometimes – or is it Creole. Yes indeed Mrs Jar you can be a Creole Creole wife sometimes!’
‘Your jokes are almost as bad as your singing,’ said Pickle. ‘Now help me prepare our evening meal.’
‘Okay I will, but first I have some exciting news to tell you.’
‘Go on then.’
‘My old friend Carlos has been in touch from Glass Vegas. He is planning to visit for the festival.’
‘Oh that is wonderful news,’ said Pickle.
‘There’s more good news. He now has a little bottle-dog called Glassie. He asked if he could bring her along too.’
‘A little dog? - Perfect! This will make our festival week all the more special.’ said Pickle. ‘I can’t wait to see him again.’
Muscle Jar had a very important job down at the city’s Bottle and Jar Infirmary. Because of his immensely strong arms, he was employed to loosen all the bottle tops and jar lids of the patients attending for treatment. The glass surgeons would then go to work with the excellent repair jobs that they do. It goes without saying that Muscle’s other task was to reapply all the lids and bottle tops back on the correct patients and ensure that they were all nice and tightly sealed. There had been a steady rise in cracked jars and bottles recently. It was worrying for the city. No one seemed to know what was causing all these injuries.
Carlos was in a singing mood. ‘Big wheel keep on turning,’ he sang; trying without success to stay in tune. Glassie and he were packed up and all aboard the Rubberdee Lee steam train heading south. They were moving pretty fast at around ninety-five clickety-clacks a minute. ‘Rollin’ on the river,’ sung Carlos, whilst making piston movements with his arms. He nudged Glassie with his elbow, ‘Are you looking forward to rolling on the Muddydippi River, Glassie?’
Glassie had very little knowledge of bottle language, but she did recognise certain things such as “Dinner” and “Walkies”. The phrase “Rolling on the Muddydippi” seemed familiar to her, even if it only created an image in her mind of rolling about in the mud and getting totally filthy. That sounded like fun, so she responded in her usual way. ‘Hoot!’ she said, in an excited fashion, but to Carlos it just sounded like, “Hoot”.
‘Tickets, please,’ said the ticket collecting bottle. He was elderly and his glass was sagging in places. He had a small slot in his chest where passengers deposited coins in exchange for train tickets. Carlos had already purchased his fare back in Glass Vegas.
‘Good day, Mr Ticket collector. We seem to be making excellent progress. How many knots do you think we are doing?’
‘Knots?’ replied the collector, ‘I know not about knots - nothing at all. I did not attend the Boy Scouts movement when I was a young bottle.’
‘So you know not about knots? Not a ditty? - In fact a big nought!’
‘No, I never did know nothing about knots, not never,’ said the collector. ‘But ninety-five clickety-clacks equates to a quick click quota at today’s current calculations.’
‘I bet it does,’ said Carlos, ‘but betting’s not my bag.’
‘Hoot!’ hollered a happy Glassie, who still had mud in her mind.
It was a long journey.
At the very moment that Carlos was attempting to sing on the train, a certain Witch Queen of Blue Orleans was also wailing in ever increasing
scales that never seemed to end. The furniture in the shack rattled. The windows shook and vibrated. The panes of glass tried to complain to Marie L’Beau, but she didn’t hear them. Her rising tone peaked with a screeching noise that made the local bottle-cats dive for cover.
‘Please stop’ cried the jars in the spice rack, who were feeling rather dizzy by now. Marie L’Beau carried on. She was preparing a spell for the Mardi Gras, and nothing or no bottle was going to stop her.
Then just as she fell silent, a loud cracking noise could be heard from outside the shack door. The vibrations from the Witch Queen’s singing had caused a three-inch crack to appear on the body of a young jar of honey who just happened to be walking past the shack at that moment. Marie’s twin sister, Dolly, was first on the scene as she had just turned the corner into Bon-Bon street.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Dolly, as she stepped over the sticky substance that was leaking onto the sidewalk from Honey Jar. ‘We will need to get you along to the infirmary right away.’
Inside the shack, Marie L’Beau sniggered darkly as she peered through a gap in the shingle wall. ‘So now I have proof that it works.’
A large medicine bottle, with a spinning blue lamp attached to his cork, came crashing through the infirmary door. ‘Incoming!’ he yelled.
Muscle Jar, who had just come on duty, jumped to his feet. ‘What is the injury this time?’ he asked.
‘Same as all the rest I’m afraid,’ replied the medicine bottle. ‘A split in the glass. No reason for it. She didn’t collide with anything. It just happened for no apparent reason.’
Muscle Jar was suddenly distracted. He recognised an old colleague standing just behind the injured Honey Jar. Dolly L’Beau had worked with him before at the infirmary and they had become good friends in the past.
Muscle called over to her, ‘Well hello, Dolly. It’s so nice to see you back where you belong.’
Dolly smiled and waved with her one arm. ‘Good to see you too, Muscle.’
‘You’re looking swell, Dolly.’
‘Thanks, and you are looking good too,’ said Dolly, her Grapefruit juice beginning to blush ever so slightly.
‘You’re still glowing, I see,’ said Muscle.
‘Excuse me, sir, but we have a patient here that needs attention,’ said the medicine bottle.
‘Oh I am so sorry,’ said Muscle. ‘Please forgive me – so it is the same injury again? This is becoming more and more strange.’
Dolly helped little Honey Jar onto the bed. ‘I think I may be able to help clear this up.’
‘No that’s OK,’ said Muscle, ‘You don’t work here anymore. We will tend to the cleaning up.’
‘No, that is not what I meant. I think I know why there are so many cracked jars and bottles attending the infirmary. In fact I am certain that I know the reason. It has all to do with my silly twin sister, Marie. She thinks that she is a witch and she can call on the powers of the Voodoo spirits.’
‘She always was quite odd, I thought,’ said Muscle, then he had a sudden panic attack, ‘b-but when I say odd . . . I-I mean, she is -’
‘A crazy bottle?’
‘Well, not crazy, but perhaps a little strange.’
Dolly smiled, ‘You don’t need to watch your words just because she is my twin sister, Muscle. I think that she needs help to make her believe that she is not a witch, but I don’t know how it can be done. It is the high singing that does all the damage. Everything in the shack vibrates and eventually something cracks. Marie believes it is her special powers, but it is really just her voice, but she won’t listen to me.’
‘I see,’ said Muscle, ‘that makes sense. Do you know what we need here, Dolly?’
‘What?’
‘We need a hero to step in.’
Just then the door opened. ‘Did someone say “A hero”?’ asked Carlos De Vase.
It was an unfortunate fact of life that Glassie’s favourite food just happened to be honey. It became slightly embarrassing for everyone involved. Muscle Jar eventually used his strong arms to prise the dog off of little Honey jar.
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie, his tongue all sticky and sweet.
‘Now now, Glassie,’ said Carlos in a scolding tone, ‘you can’t just walk into a hospital and start to eat the patients. That is not very nice, is it?’
‘Hoot!’
‘She says that she is sorry,’ said Carlos, pretending to understand one “hoot” from another “hoot”.
‘That is OK,’ said Muscle. ‘Perhaps if you could take her for a walk down by the river, we could meet up later and catch up on all that you have been up to.’
Carlos said, ‘That is an excellent idea. I will show Glassie the Muddydippi River and then we will call in at your home.’
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie.
‘Before I go,’ continued Carlos, ‘could you introduce me to this delightful looking lady?’
When Muscle presented Miss Dolly L’Beau to Carlos, he extended his right hand, but as Dolly had only a left arm, she could not return the greeting. They eventually managed to do a kind of awkward upside down handshake.
The vacation to Blue Orleans hadn’t started off exactly as Carlos had hoped, but he still had a feeling that he was going to enjoy himself in this wonderful city. It had everything that he and Glassie could ask for; lots to paint, lots to see, wonderful sounds, smells and views all around the city. He was also very excited at the thought of taking part in the festival parade. He had heard so many good stories about Mardi Gras. However, he had no idea that a certain Witch Queen was planning to do everything in her voodoo power to ruin it for everyone.
‘Let’s go and buy some Muddydippi mud pie, my little friend,’ he said.
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie.
The preparations for Festival Week were well underway. Bottles and Jars in all corners of the city were making costumes for the parade. It was always a very colourful affair. In and around the French quarter, tourists were flocking to the Jars clubs to hear the music and taste the delicious Cajun food. Every building in Bon-Bon Street was freshly painted. Flags and banners were hung from the upper floor balconies. All except for one rundown shack; the home of the L’Beau sisters. Marie had forbidden her twin sister to decorate the shack. It was dull and drab, and the shingle walls were dry and warped. It looked awful to every bottle’s eyes . . . all except, that is, for one particular blue coloured bottle. The sight of the shack stopped him in his tracks.
‘Well what have we got here, Glassie?’ said an excited Carlos De Vase, ‘This is the real Blue Orleans. This old shack is beautiful! I must do a painting of it right now.’
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie.
Carlos immediately set up his portable easel in the middle of the street and began to mix paints on his palette. ‘I will call this painting “Le petit bijou”. I can give it to Muscle and Pickle as a thank you present for allowing us to stay with them for the Festival Week.’
Glassie sat down in the street next to her master and scratched behind her left ear. It made a tinkling sound, like a glass bell. They had already enjoyed a walk along the riverside. They had seen the big wheels turning on the river boats and had tasted the best Muddydippi mud pie ever.
‘I got the blues,’ sang an old dusty brown bottle who was sitting in a doorway across the street. ‘I got the blues,’ he sang again as he plucked at his banjo. ‘I got the blues way down in my shoes.’
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie.
‘You don’t want to go paintin’ dat there ol’ shack, mister,’ said the old dusty brown bottle. ‘Dat there shack, he is haunted.’
‘He is what?’ said Carlos.
‘He haunted, I say.’ The old dusty brown bottle rose to his feet. Carlos noticed that his shoes were not blue after all. As a matter of fact, he didn’t have any shoes, just old dusty brown feet.
It took quite some time for the old dusty brown bottle to finish standing upright. He seemed to be very, very old indeed. He looked at Carlos with a puzzled expression. ‘I see that you got the blues too,’ he said eventually.
‘I have always been this colour,’ replied Carlos. ‘I come from a family of blue bottles.’
‘And do all of your family have a hole through their middle like you do?’
‘No sir, only me,’ replied Carlos.
The old bottle couldn’t resist passing his old brown hand through the opening. ‘Well I’ll be . . .’ he declared. Then he yelped in pain as Glassie’s jaws closed around his old brown fingers. ‘Ouch,’ he squealed, ‘I think that the Witch Queen has already put a spell on your dog.’
‘The Witch Queen?’ said Carlos, pulling the old dusty brown bottle’s hand back out through the hole in his middle; Glassie’s jaws still attached, ‘Can you tell me about her?’
‘I surely can,’ said the old dusty brown bottle, ‘if you could just tell your dog to give me my hand back.’
Carlos did as he was asked and Glassie dropped to the street again. ‘Hoot!’ she said, menacingly, which again just sounded like, “Hoot”.
Carlos said, ‘So where does she stay – this Witch Queen?’
‘You are doing a painting of her house right now,’ said the old dusty brown bottle.
Carlos turned and looked at Marie L’Beau’s rundown shack, ‘Oh how wonderfully mysterious,’ he said.
There was so much to talk about over the dinner table that evening. Muscle and Pickle served up some tasty traditional food and Glassie gnawed on a meaty bone.
‘How was little Honey Jar?’ Carlos asked. ‘I am so sorry about Glassie’s behaviour earlier.’
‘That is OK. She has had her repair and is now back at home resting,’ said Muscle. He then repeated what Dolly had told him about her twin sister, and the damage that she was doing.
‘I didn’t even realise when you introduced us earlier,’ said Carlos. ‘So that delightful lady is the Witch Queen’s twin sister?’
‘Yes, she is,’ said Pickle Jar, as she began to clear the table, ‘but they are not alike in any way. Marie is the troubled one.’
‘I know,’ said Carlos. ‘An old brown bottle that I met today told me some sad tales. Why doesn’t someone talk to her? What has made her feel that way?’
‘The local bottles and jars are afraid to,’ said Pickle, ‘they fear that she may truly have voodoo powers. Nobody wants a spell cast on themselves or their families?’
Muscle said, ‘Dolly told me that she is planning to ruin the Mardi Gras parade. It is very worrying.’
‘Hooth!’ said Glassie, who was choking slightly on the bone.
Carlos stroked the ends of his long waxed moustache with his fingers. He often did this when he was being very thoughtful.
‘You look very thoughtful,’ said Muscle Jar.
‘Mmm,’ replied Carlos, thoughtfully, ‘do you have any books on voodoo or black magic?’
‘I don’t, but I could look it up for you. I have a Gloogle App on my shell phone.’
‘Perfect!’ said Carlos.
Marie L’Beau was having a morning off from creating voodoo spells and singing practice. She had decided to save herself for the big day at the weekend, and, besides, she had a large pile of ironing to get through. Yes, even Witch Queens had to do ironing. She had previously tried to create a voodoo spell that would make the pile of clothes self-iron or even disappear, but all her efforts had failed so far. Dolly, her twin sister, seemed to be avoiding her more and more these days. Marie wasn’t very pleased with her. Her sister didn’t believe in voodoo. What a ridiculous notion to have, thought Marie. Of course voodoo is real. She would just need to work a little harder to convince her, that’s all. Her thoughts were distracted by a banging at the door. It was very odd for a bottle or jar to come calling to the L’Beau shack; very odd indeed. She put her ear to the door and listened for a moment, and then called out with her best Witch’s voice, ‘Who calls at the home of the Witch Queen of Blue Orleans? Answer now, or be damned forever.’ That should do the trick, she thought to herself.
A voice answered from the other side of the door. ‘I am Professor Test-tube from the University of Gallus Texus. I must speak to you urgently.’
Marie opened the door slowly. The rusty hinges creaked like a yawning dog. Standing before her on the step was an oddly shaped blue bottle with a hole through his middle.
‘You don’t look like a test-tube to me, mister,’ she said sharply, ‘and how come you got that hole through your middle? Have you been blowed up or somethin’?’
‘Appearances can be deceiving,’ said Carlos, trying his best to deceive the Witch Queen.
‘And why you got that hound? I don’t like no hounds around me. They bring bad spells – an’ sometimes bad smells too.’
‘Hoot!’ said the hound, disguising his bark as best he could.
The Professor said, ‘Miss L’Beau . . . can I call you Miss L’Beau?’
‘You can call me “Witchy”,’ said the Witch.
‘Alright Witchy, I need to inform you that we have had a warning that there is a hurricane heading this way. We at the University strongly advise you to leave the city of Blue Orleans. They are naming it “Hurricane Hoolie”’.
‘Hoolie Smoolie!’ said Marie L’Beau. ‘I ain’t goin’ nowhere, and that’s a fact! How d’you nutcases know these things anyhow? You got a crystal ball at your fancy pants university up there in Gallus? Ain’t no match fir my magic powers, whatever it is.’
‘Actually, it is our hound that is the expert.’
‘Say what!’ said Marie L’Beau.
Let me introduce you to our wonder-dog, Glassie. She can sniff out a hurricane from two thousand miles away.’
‘Hoot!’ said the very proud wonder-dog.
Marie L’Beau threw her head back and screamed with laughter. It was a high pitched scream that caused the windows to rattle in their frames. Carlos could feel his teeth vibrating. Even the wonder-dog was becoming alarmed. She hid behind her master’s legs. Carlos could now see at first hand that the Witch Queen’s voice had the power to crack glass bottles and jars with ease. He now understood how difficult this job was going to be. His search through the Gloogle App had been pointless. Marie L’Beau had no special powers of voodoo or black magic; only a very strong voice that could break glass. But something had to be done before the Mardi Gras parade. He had to find a way stop the Witch Queen. Marie L’Beau slammed the door shut with her one arm. He could hear her continuing to laugh inside the shack as she returned to her ironing chores.
On the Friday evening of the festival week, Carlos became suddenly busy with Pickle Jar’s sewing box. He and Glassie had thoroughly enjoyed themselves for four days. Muscle and Pickle had taken them on a riverboat trip, they had danced with some dishes in Basin Street and they had enjoyed the most delicious Cajun food that one could imagine, although some of the hot spicy sauces didn’t agree with Glassie too much. Her usual “Hoot” had been reduced to just a simple “Hoo”.
‘You don’t need to help with the festival decorations,’ said Pickle. ‘Everything has been made already. We have created banners from our old bed clothes and have stitched sequins onto old curtains. We will have plenty of flags to wave.’
‘Oh I am not making a banner or a flag,’ said Carlos, ‘I have been studying that Gloogle App on your shell phone again. I am making something very special.’
‘Are you really?’ said Pickle. ‘Is it a secret?’
‘Not a secret to us, Pickle, but a certain Witch Queen of Blue Orleans is going to get a taste of her own voodoo medicine.’ Carlos then revealed to Pickle and her husband Muscle what he had been making.
It had finally arrived; the day that every bottle and jar in Blue Orleans had been waiting a whole year for. The city was a spectacular sight. It was so unbelievably colourful. Bands were playing, jars were singing, bottles were dancing in the streets. Flags, banners and streamers were draped from the balconies in the French Quarter. Glass beads were dangling around the neck of every bottle in the city. It had all the makings of a splendid celebration. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about the Witch Queen and her threats. Nothing could go wrong. Not on this day. Not on the day of the Mardi Gras celebration.
Inside her shack on Bon-Bon Street, Marie L’Beau had been in good spirits too. She had been practicing her musical scales and she felt that her voice was just right. The parade was only two streets away. She could hear them playing their instruments and laughing and singing. I am sure they won’t mind if I join in, she thought to herself, especially the singing.
Then, for the second time in a week, there was a knocking sound at the front door of the shack.
‘Who is it?’ she cried with a witchy voice.
‘Woohoo!’ was the reply.
‘Woohoo who?’ said the Witch Queen.
‘Hoolie woohoo!’ said the voice.
‘Hoolie woohoo who – Oh enough of this nonsense,’ said the Witch Queen, and she opened the door. There before her stood two of the strangest creatures she had ever seen. They had feathers in their hair and bones through their noses. Their glass bodies were covered with glowing paints. The taller one had something in his hand. It was a rag doll; a doll that looked quite familiar.
‘I am the Spirit of Hurricane Hoolie,’ said the tall one. He shook the rag doll in front of the Witch Queen’s eyes. It was at that moment that Marie L’Beau realised that the doll had been made in her image.
‘That looks like me,’ she said, her eyes focusing on the odd shaped cloth doll that had only one arm. Then she saw the large hat pin that the Hoolie Spirit was grasping in his other hand. ‘What do think you are doing?’ she asked.
‘I will show you,’ said the Hoolie Spirit, who was really Carlos in disguise. He pushed the hat pin into the cloth doll’s neck. ‘Now you are done for, Witchy. Now you won’t be able to sing. I have made this voodoo doll in your image and I have cast my spell on your voice.’
Marie L’Beau placed her one hand on her glass hip and said, ‘I know who you are mister! You are no Hoolie Spirit. You are that blue bottle that came visiting here the other day. So you thought that you could fool me with your fancy dress costume and silly little rag voodoo doll!’
Carlos knew that his trickery had failed miserably. The Witch Queen hadn’t fallen for his voodoo doll threat. It was just as well that he had thought of plan number two. Marie L’Beau was just about to scream with laughter when the second voodoo spirit jumped on her. This one had incredibly strong muscular arms. With a quick powerful twist, Muscle Jar loosened Marie L’Beau’s cork just enough to pour in the hot Cajun sauce that had caused little Glassie to lose her voice the night before.
‘What do you think you are doo hoo hoo hoo . . .’ her voice faded away to a whisper. Muscle jar quickly replaced her cork and said, ‘There is just enough hot Cajun sauce in there to calm your voice down to a whisper, but be warned, Marie L’Beau . . . I will add more if you attempt to cause any more bottle or jar injuries.’
Just then, the parade entered Bon-Bon Street. Marie L’Beau watched with a tear in her glass eye as they filed past, singing, dancing and waving their flags and banners.
‘That is the real spirit of Blue Orleans,’ said Carlos. ‘The spirit of the people. Nothing can defeat that. Not black magic or voodoo.’
Carlos knew that it may take a week or two, but he was confident that with the help of Dolly, Muscle and Pickle, the Witch Queen of Blue Orleans could be transformed into a good member of the community.
. . . And that is exactly what happened. Carlos was so pleased when he opened a message in a bottle a few weeks later at his home in Glass Vegas. Marie and Dolly had been out together more and more in the streets of Blue Orleans. The Witch Queen had gone. In her place was Marie L’Beau, the voice tutor. She had taken on the role of a visiting singing coach in the local schools.
‘I so love happy endings,’ said Carlos.
‘Hoot!’ said Glassie, who had found her voice again.
About the Author
Born in Saltcoats, Brian Morrison has a day job at the Hunterston Power Station. But in his other life he is well known as a caricaturist and comedy sketch writer. More recently, he has become a novelist and a writer of children's stories. His dark comedy, Blister, is available on Amazon.