A bit like a faery story, a bit like humour, and borrowing wantonly from pop culture.

Joby
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Joby Wonky Noble
by FrACTured FrIEND

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With Apologies to:

• Samuel Clemens (aka Mark Twain)
• George Lucas
• Gary Kurtz
• Emlyn Williams
• Sydney Pollack
• David S. Ward
• Robert Louis Stevenson
• Monty Python
• Rob Reiner
• S. Morgenstern
• William Goldman
• Billy Crystal
• Gene Roddenberry
• Patrick Stewart
• Joseph Barbera
• William Hanna
• Daws Butler
• Marina Ogilvy (Mowatt)
• Zenouska Mowatt
• Robert Heinlein
• The Entire Royal Family of the United Kingdom

Er... actually, a disclaimer here. Yes, I'm using real names of the British Royals in part of this story -- please forgive as I have no knowledge whatsoever of their actual personalities or proclivities. They are merely part of the story to provide backdrop for this farcical journey into writing. The only resemblance to the real people is the name and general physical descriptions (and sometimes not even that) -- and as far as I know, neither Miss Marina Ogilvy (Mowatt) nor Miss Zenouska Mowatt nor any of the rest of the Royal family of the United Kingdom have passed away or are even in poor health.

Explanation of Apologetic Credits

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"Goodnight, you've been a wonderful crowd!"

Joby's beaming smile lasted just long enough for him to make his exit (stage left, even), before settling into the mournful look he'd been sporting for a couple of months now.

"Ya did good, kid," Smollitt told him as the voice impressionist headed toward stage for his own performance, bringing a small and brief genuine smile to Joby's features.

"Thanks, Todd," he murmured and made his way back to the dressing room as Smollitt announced to the crowd that 'the Wand' would be back tomorrow night.

It wasn't a bad gig, working the stage magician shtick, it was just that he missed Miranda so much. But really... who wants to see a single juggler? On stage, to keep the interest, a juggler has to have a partner for passing and playing off of. I mean, the only kind of audience that can tell a solo is doing something impressive is an audience full of jugglers.

He hung up the jacket on the worn, old wooden coatrack and smiled. He kind of liked the jacket and top hat bit, though. They were kind of cool.

He changed into his customary cargo pants, tee shirt and hoodie, before making his way out to catch Smollitt's gallery of not-dead-yet Presidents from the wings, assisting with a few off-stage voices as he did every night.

The crowd seemed to actually like Smollitt tonight, so he made his way over to the bench and sat to wait while the large and friendly man collected his tips. Maybe Smollitt'd spring for Denny's?

He stood, and stretched, as Smollitt was shaking the last few hands of happy tourists when a throat was cleared behind him quietly. He glanced at the nervous little man with glasses standing there smiling at him.

"Uh, Mister Smollitt'll be here in a minute, sir," he told the man who was only slightly taller than himself.

"Actually, Joby, I'm here to talk to you," was the reply.

With a bit of a smile, because any young American smiles when they hear an accent from across the pond, Joby actually took a look at him. He was, perhaps, the shortest adult Joby had run across that wasn't an actual dwarf or little person. At eleven, Joby was supposed to have to look up to talk to adults. This guy's steel grey eyes were only higher than his own because of the shoes he wore. He really looked like a tourist. Plaid button-up shirt, blue jeans, chaps, cowboy boots, and an honest-to-hilarious ten gallon hat. In Atlantic City. It was hard not to laugh.

"Well, I'm not supposed to talk to strangers, and you're about as strange as they get, 'pardner,'" he chortled, turning away to at least attempt to hide his silent laughter.

"I must say, I was a bit surprised at how much fashion is different in this area from my last trip to the States. They thought I was quite chic in Houston."

Joby ignored him and started across the stage toward Smollitt.

"Please, sir, do listen to me. I can explain quickly, and your large friend is welcome to come along," he almost begged as he clomped after Joby across the stage.

Joby rolled his eyes and thought about waiting and hitting the door release as the guy walked across it, but, aw, he could just be a harmless nut. He sped up slightly as Smollitt walked down the stage steps to shake more hands.

"I knew your mother," came a whispered hiss behind him, almost panicked.

Joby stopped dead in his tracks.

He whirled around, angry now.

As soon as he saw the little man's face, he knew it wasn't a trick, though. All the anger drained away and was replaced by a... need.

"Help me Joby 'Wand' Ogilvy... you're my only hope."

"Who are you? How did you know my mother?"

"Let's talk about this somewhere a bit more private. I'll tell you everything you want to know -- that is, if I know it myself -- and then, I have a rather large favour to ask on the behalf of my employer. Who that is will be revealed by the talk we'll have, as well."

"Favor?"

"One you'll be under no obligation for, but... let's just say that I'm pretty certain I can work out an exchange that'll help your willingness."

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"I don't get it, Fish Guy."

"The proper way to address me, sir, is, 'Reynolds-Carriengton,' or even, 'Carriengton,' or, 'Reynolds,' if you wish. What don't you get, Master Ogilvy?"

"You said your name was Fishie."

"My Christian name is Fisher, yes, but I am to be addressed by my surname by one of your rank."

"Whatever. All of it. If my mom was some kind of royalty from England, why am I an orphan in Jersey? I mean, wouldn't someone have missed a Prince or such?"

"Yes and no. I had to really dig to find out that you even existed. Let me start again with your family. You have two siblings, a brother that's five years older than you, and a sister that's eight years older. You are far enough removed from the throne that you don't have any 'official' title other than 'Master' due to your age -- you'll be a 'Mister' some day -- and you are the fortieth in line for the throne in case of the death of the Queen. Now... that has nearly come to pass. Your mother, and a large number of other relatives have been grievously injured. Most are not-quite-dead yet, or mostly-dead right now."

"What? So what does that mean to me?"

"Well, Master Ogilvy, it means that your half-sister, Miss Zenouska Mowatt, may very well be the new Queen shortly."

"You still haven't answered me. None of this makes sense. Why would it be me?"

"Your mother, young Master, was known for her... indiscretions. Your sister was very nearly born out of wedlock, which would have been too scandalous for thought. As it is, she was born a mere three months after your mother married your siblings' father."

"So?"

"Let's just say the standards of behaviour are much more... strenuous... for royalty -- even those more than three dozen steps from the throne."

"What about my father?"

"I'll get there, sir. Your mother divorced her husband just about a little less than a year before you were born. She began to reconcile with her mother -- your grandmother -- and found herself pregnant, again. You see, she was pregnant out of wedlock very young, and was forced to have an abortion by the Royal family.

"The second time she was in that situation, she married the child's father. That was your half-sister's father, and they later had your half-brother. After the divorce, she was on track to make things right with her family, but couldn't bear to be forced into another abortion or marriage. She and your father, with the help of the Royal family, kept her condition a secret this time.

"At least, secret from the media. So, in early 1998, your mother went on an extended tour of the United States to recuperate from her recent divorce. That was the public story. The actual story is that she and her lover, your father, came to America to secretly have their child and see to it that he or she was provided for. Only a very few people in the Royal family knew you even existed. Which is why we need your help."

"Hold it."

"Yes, Master Ogilvy?"

"Stop calling me that, it's creepy, call me Joby. And this is all still sounding like hooey to me. The lie of it is kind of obvious, I did not grow up in the lap of luxury. Yeah, I know some of the British stuff because of Miranda, but... that doesn't change that I'm a performer in a third-rate theatre in Atlantic City. I'm only still here and performing because the management hasn't worked out that I've not got an adult guardian."

"Miranda? You mean she's with you? Here?!?"

"Not anymore."

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"She died."

"No..."

"About two months ago."

"She..." his face filled with pain and tears silently spilled out and traced quiet paths down his cheeks.

Joby didn't know what to do but let the same happen with him.

"I don't remember being without her. I mean, I always figured she WAS my sister, except she had that nifty accent. She taught me to talk like that, too. Said it'd come in handy someday. I miss her so much. She was always there for me."

"Mast-- Joby. She was my daughter."

"What?"

"Miranda... was my daughter. She was to be the nanny for you in your new home here. I lost contact with her right after you were born... I assumed the worst. She was alive up until two months ago?" he sat down right where he stood, and began openly sobbing.

"Um, Fishie, don't, please. Mister Carriengton?"

He made an attempt to stifle himself, but was obviously still upset, "It's simply Carriengton, Joby. With no salutation. Oh, look at the time. I promised your friend Mister Smollitt I'd have you back soon. Perhaps we should have him here for your interests, anyway, as he seems to be looking out for you."

"Yeah. He's helping me keep things quiet so I can keep working. Says I have to go to school this fall again, though."

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The three sat around a table in the back corner of Denny's, Todd Smollitt wolfing down his third helping of biscuits and sausage gravy while the little British man and the boy brought him up to speed.

"Wait. So, Joby's some kinda Prince?"

"Well, technically, no. Master Ogilvy -- sorry -- Joby is simply in line for the throne, and so far down that line that it would be considered impossible for him to even think of inheriting it, in most cases. However, the situation we're keeping quiet in Windsor could rapidly worsen. I've not really explained what we need of him as of yet, but he really is our only hope not to default the Royal line back to George V's grandson, the Earl of Harewood."

"Why is that a bad thing?" asked a very serious face with whipped cream on his nose from the stack of pancakes in front of him.

Carriengton gently held out a napkin to the boy and gestured to his nose before answering, "Dignity, dear boy, if I'm right, you'll need to consider your dignity greatly in the near future. It is a, 'bad thing,' Joby, because it would be a change in the Royal House. Currently it is the Mountbatten-Windsors that are on the throne. To default to the Earl -- who is 86 years old, by the by -- would revert it permanently to the Lascelles. Related to the Windsors, as the Earl is the nephew of George VI, Her Royal Highness' father."

"The Earl is the Queen's cousin?" put in Todd.

"Quite," replied Carriengton.

"Aaannnd thassa badt fing?" asked Joby around a mouthful of pancake.

"Think of it like this, gentlemen. If President Obama and all of his cabinet members were all to die, who would become President?"

"Well... I suppose they'd put someone in place and have an emergency election," Todd answered, with Joby shrugging.

"What if," asked Carriengton with a twinkle in his eye, "they just gave it to John McCain? He was allowed to bring in Sarah Palin as his second and form his own cabinet?"

Todd snorted, "Nobody'd like it much, but then, they take steps to make sure there's always someone in the line that's part of the current group."

"Exactly, my good man. That's the problem here, it's an unheard of situation, and if news of it gets out before we're able to... enact damage control... then it will be given to the rival group."

"I think I get it."

Both of the adults looked at Joby. Then at his plate empty of all five pancakes. Then back to Joby.

"What? I'm a growing boy."

"Sure, yer gonna be a beanpole, kid -- but not anytime soon. I don't think yer actually doing any real growing yet."

"Aw, switch off, Todd."

"That may work to our advantage," added Carriengton, sipping once again at his tea (Earl Grey, Hot).

"Okay, you explained about my mom... now is this where you ask that favour you were talking about?"

He licked his lips and cleared his throat and got a refill on his teapot of hot water, and then fidgeted all nervous-like while not looking either of them in the eyes.

"I'm already middle aged. So there is a self-interest in this. I can't start over. But it's not just about me. All of the servants for the Mountbatten-Windsors have been serving and their families serving since before World War One, when George VI set down that the Royals were Windsors, there was a loyalty created between those Royals and their servants. If the focus of the throne shifts, it will shift away from all of us, as well."

"I get it," nodded Todd, "if the current monarchs become the new Pretenders, then you and all the other servants and servant families like you will be ousted, too."

Carriengton nodded, but Joby just stared at his friend.

"What? I follow BBC News. Get over it, kid."

"So, you want me to declare myself this long lost relative? I mean, I'm an okay actor, and I can be all proper and even have the Brit accent if you want me to. And if you're right, and I'm actually -- whoa -- a member of the British Royal Family... the current powers that be would be pretty happy to have me and even though I'm acting... it's a really real role. Why would I not want to do this? I just gotta let you and whoever else is in on the fact that I'm alive tell me how to do what I need to do."

He was even more nervous as he responded, "Well, Mas--Joby, that's the thing. The fact that you've grown up amongst the coarse and uncouth Americans, in an area even more crude than the general nation itself, amongst rabble -- No, offense, Toddy --"

"None taken."

"Well, it just wouldn't work, no matter how well practiced at the role of being proper you got. You would always have a portion, and a not small portion at that, of the populace that would simply be against you or even hate you enough that we couldn't necessarily guarantee your safety to an age that you could provide an heir."

"Wow, cool!"

"Not cool, kid... getting assassinated isn't exactly a way to boost your career, unless you paint pictures."

"Oh. Yeah."

Carriengton waited for them to subside, then waited more for the question to be asked, and asked it was -- eventually -- by young Master Ogilvy.

"So... then... what exactly do you want me to do? I mean you've acted like you're sure I'll say no, so it must be huge."

"Well... you'll recall that I mentioned that there was an accident of sorts that I've been vague about, and that while no one was yet dead, it could happen easily?"

"Yeah... are you trying to say the kid is gonna be King?"

"Oh my, no!"

"Then, what are you saying, Fishie?" asked a now-worried Joby.

"Well, the one of the Mountbatten-Windsors we know is going to make it, without a doubt, is Miss Zenouska Mowatt. Your half-sister."

"Oh, so it wouldn't even be all that long? I'm still not seeing why this is hard for you to ask me."

Todd and Joby looked at each other in confusion. It seemed like a perfect dream. They waited for the fidgety Carriengton to calm down and take several breaths in an effort to do just that.

"What we are... what I am asking you to do, and you'll have all the help possible or necessary... is to pretend to be Miss Zenouska May Mowatt until she's recovered."

As that bit rendered both of them speechless, he hurried on, "If others in the Royal line above her recover, that's even better, but you have more than a passing resemblance to her, and since she's quite camera shy and there aren't really any photo records of her of any real quality on the internet, it's ideal. You're even of the same diminutive stature as she is. There will be people all around you that know what is going on, and all you'd have to do is be the actress -- sorry, actor -- in the eye of the storm, so to speak."

He paused and waited for them to respond.

Either of them.

At all.

Even a blink would do.

He wondered if it hurt to have one's eyes dry out.

Joby sank back into the chair, finally, and mumbled to himself, "Heavens to Murgatroyd, talk about your strange situations."

When Todd finally spoke, it was as though he assumed Joby would, indeed, be doing it.

"Will Joby be able to talk to the real girl? I mean, if anyone even kinda sorta knows her, and he messes it up, it just ain't gonna work."

The two of them talked about details and this and that while Joby stared into his (soon to be her?) cup of hot cocoa. He'd never told anyone but Miranda about what ... that. He focused back on the conversation.

"Come on, Carriengton, you know this is ridiculous and you're just begging to be caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Okay, yeah, you've planned a lot better than I would have thought, but... really. There's no way you can possibly think that Joby here will--"

"I'll do it. When do we leave?"

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Special Thanks: to Erin for letting me bounce ideas off of her and helping with a few of the more particularly groanable puns. Blame her! Yar! Er... okay, so it's my fault. No hu-hu.

Tanstaafl,
FrACTured FrIEND