Part Three: The Watch-Fires of a Hundred Circling Camps
Countless wide eyes. A room abuzz with expectation. And then a hush, descending like snowfall, after which only the odd cough and creak of a chair can be heard.
This is the moment. My reason for having left Cobbickshire and flown across the Atlantic to New York City. This is the moment I will address the gathering of NACAS (North American Cobbickshire Appreciation Society) members, this devoted band of would-be Cobbickians.
I tap the microphone and gently clear my throat. And I begin: “Shortly after midnight on October 5th 1653, Squire Drawfoot of Delling Snell in Cobbickshire, was awoken by an ungodly commotion outside his window…”
It was a success, that’s all I need to report. Not a roaring success but a success that gently purred. I was greeted not with the adulation bestowed on a returning victorious emperor but with the warmth associated with a half hour sunbathe on a Manhattan rooftop in August. There was applause, a lively Q&A session, and a buffet that dragged on just a little too long.
Tomorrow I leave this land I have christened Americkshire to head home to a certain floating county. You know the place. It’s rich in history, steeped in legend, and lost at sea. Cobbickshire…
