The midpoint of Oktober

Seeing as Octoberfest is half way over, I'm posting the first half of the Oktoberfest story Andrea requested. What happens next? You'll know when I know. Enjoy. And any advice is welcome.

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There is a quaint town on the northern slopes of the French Bavarian Alps, named for its benefactress, the Duchess of Pontoof. M'me Pontoof is a ravishing creature with hair so golden, Rapunzel was locked in a room to spin its equal. The Duchess does not age; nor has she ever. Legends tell that her husband discovered her collecting butterflies in the deepest parts of the Forest Noirtier. She was beside Edelweiss, a spring named thus because its color is the scent of that rare bloom. And it is said that the Duchess of Pontoof was made beautiful by this pool. It is told that she was once a homely, calloused milkmaid, but upon pouring her despairing tears into the pool, she was bade wash her face with its color; when she did, the water filled her eyes and she became enchanting, and enchanted. Her eyes turned from brown, to clear -- the color of Edelweiss. Now the Duchess has returned this greatest of favors by one still greater: she has built her estate around the spring, and around her estate has been built a town, named for M'me Pontoof.

Each year a festival is held remembering the day the best-loved Lady d'Edel became beautiful. All throughout the town, in every available square, great striped tents are erected and filled with teeming crowds from throughout the canton. And in these tents, in nearly every one, actually, a bar is built against a back wall; and at this bar are queued the masses. They wait hours to drink, each taking only one pint and savoring it, for in Pontoof, no golden beer is consumed. In Pontoof all beer is like the Edelweiss -- rare, unique, and again, rare. The only beer in Pontoof is beer drawn directly from the spring. And when all the beer is gone, a collective sigh flows about the town, rustling the last autumnal leaves from their perches and hurrying them along to the ground. Upon this annual sign, every citizen and stranger directs their footfalls towards the large tent, striped orange and red alternately, the large tent placed beside the Pontoofian Manor, beside the spring Edelweiss.

It is here, at the bar along the back wall, that each year a very important person is announced: the recipient of the last pint of sparkling beer. For ages this tradition has been repeated. My own father told me of it, and how as a child his father had charged him at his bedside to pray to one day be the lucky man to whom the Duchess of Pontoof presents the last pint of the year. But before you think the Duchess might descend to standing behind a bar in a striped tent doling out beer, you had better know that the Duchess is much more beautiful than that. Her eyes would light the tent, and it might burst into flames, on account of their clarity. They do seem to channel the sun. If one is not careful, when gazing at her, one may find themselves rapidly falling in love. But, to return to the beer; it is her dear friend, the mayor Viktor Von Pontoof, who does the announcing, and the last pint is presented at a masquerade ball which lends one memories of the Carnival at Rome. This ball is days of dancing and cheering and messes of confetti thrown about by the elite, masked revelers -- elite in their social class, not in their talent for frivolity -- capped at the climax by the presentation of the last alcohol imbibed at the festival.

There is only one more thing you must know before we may join current events as they play upon the stage, and it is this: M'me Pontoof is a spinstress. That is all.

We join our hero and our villain on the third night of the ball, the final night, when the important people deem to condescend to the mess the not-so-important-but-elated-to-be-invited revelers have already made. Amongst the company of the important is one rather unimposing being dressed as a musketeer; he trips over his cape and flails his scabbard behind him like a labrador; he is a short fellow, wearing a recent fashion behind his feathered mask: spectacles. This unimposing man is Hans. Hans is to be the recipient of the last pint. He has perhaps not yet comprehended his exaltation to the throne of men's admiration, as he is still apologizing profusely to the other guests, and is still breaking vases with that sword. We must be fair though: Hans has reason to be nervous. He is a simpleton from the town, a watchmaker. He is used to walking with his chin tucked to his chest, and even now, in the midst of this gala, he walks with his eyes fixed on his knees. It has been long since anyone has seen his face, and if they had, they would not remember, for his face is not remarkable. He is on his way to the main ballroom, where the Duchess will soon present him with a pint of blue beer, which Hans is still not sure he has won. Hans never wins anything, you see. He did once win a raffle as a child, but all it gained him was a wooden stick from the treasure chest in his brother's fort -- and the ticket had cost him an amount of silver. When his name was announced by the mayor, Hans stared at the man in disbelief, for reasons we will address before ending this story, but suffice it to say Hans was not one who hoped for fortune's benificience. But here he is, without regard to his doubt, standing before the chair of the Duchess, whose face I cannot discern, so closely do her eyes resemble the Edelweiss. She wears a obsidian mask, and I cannot help thinking of her eyes as jewels adorning a Polynesian volcano. It is as if the myriads of revelers are all standing in line at a museum, to see her eyes and to care nothing for the momentous occasion, or the beer or Hans at all. And then Hans did something that is still talked about in Pontoof, to this day.

Hans, though timid, was not entirely plain. Hans was the sort of fellow who doesn't talk at the bar, but always wins at arm wrestling; he does eat black chilis; and he holds his liquor better than any man you or I have known. And so Hans bent to the ear of the Duchess, then took her hand and together they twirled the length of the ballroom. All the best ladies stepped back a bit, and all the best men stepped nearer to the couple, so attracted are crows to bright shiny objects, whether they be dimes or Edelweiss eyes. The ladies murmurred that the Duchess did not look her usual dignified self on the dance floor. She did not bear herself as a swan upon a pond; no, she did not dance with poise at the hands of Hans. No, she danced like a child on a swing, and Hans was her father pushing her faster and higher and she laughed with delight. Between her laughs, the Duchess attempted to forward some conversation. "You wear spectacles, do you?" she asked. Hans wondered at her powers of observation; "Why yes, you are kind to notice, my lady." She appeared as bemused as he, and continued her theme of interrogation. "And you have begun wearing them recently, have you?" Hans was all politeness. "Well, no, my lady; I have worn them since childhood, my lady." And now she is confused. "But do you wear them in public at all?" He is confused as well. "Yes, yes my lady. I do. I have poor eyes." Hans' poor eyes searched for another topic of conversation. The Duchess was insistent though: "But how do you see when you give your speeches and presentations before the council..." And here her words slipped away unheard, because the song had ended. Hans kindly helped M'me Pontoof to sit. The two of them beside each other cut a dashing figure, with posture perhaps more familiar than one might expect from complete strangers. Hans, always the gentleman, slipped away to acquire the M'me a drink to refresh her for the presentation. A few moments later a trumpet was sounded and a herald entered bearing the last pint of the year, borne upon a tray inlaid with diamonds and sapphires and other gems that sparkled like a crayon box. And still, next to this radiance, the eyes of M'me Pontoof shone like the afternoon sun on a deep blue sea. All eyes watched hers, as the valiant musketeer approached her with a glass of water. He offered it to her and she in exchange, with much fanfare which I am of course leaving out for expediency, she presented him the last glorious pint of beer. The musketeer stood and, facing the Duchess, drank to her health and swallowed the pint in two breaths. As he set the pint back upon the shimmering tray a cheer erupted from the bystanding revelers, the trumpets sounded again, the Duchess smiled, and Hans returned to her side with a glass of water.