THE ASTONISHING MISS MAYPOLE
by William Thomas
“When they learned that their photoshoot was cancelled, the coven of raven-haired vixens—who preferred to settle disputes with broadswords and hand-axes—showed up at City Hall and suggested the mayor reconsider…”
Miss Maypole paused to turn the crude page of a thick tome so ancient its cover, brass hinges and hasp were smothered in verdigris nearly thick enough to scythe.
“He didn’t," she continued. "Which is why the remarkable illustration I’m about to show you of those Viking women in full raider-regalia hangs in his vacant office today.”
A lad in front put up his hand.
“Richard.”
“There aren't any really Vikings,” he insisted. “Not anymore. Not right now.” Unvoiced but clearly implied was the requisite, right?
“Of course not,” Miss Maypole replied. “Except for those four longships standing into English Bay.”
Following her pointed finger, the entire class turned and gasped.
A squadron of high-prowed warships was rounding Point Grey, their distinctive red-striped square-sails pregnant with menace and a following breeze. Round shields adorned with Celtic crosses and ominously undecipherable runes covered vacant rowing ports.
Even with mayhem and molestation imminent, Richard remained fixated on Miss Maypole, who appeared to be changing before his astonished peepers.
Their always fashionable instructor was now wearing a long, elaborately embroidered purple dress with crest- white bustier. Elaborately inscribed silver bracelets complemented the sea-serpent tats encircling her wrists. For the first time, Richard noticed waist-length hair. No longer a raven-black pageboy, thick golden Nordic tresses coyly draped a remarkably pale bosom. A diadem of periwinkles crowned Miss Maypole’s sun-darkened forehead.
Who knew?
Super-big clues that they weren’t where they were anymore included the reflecting shard of broken mirror hanging from something’s sinew around Miss Maypole’s neck. Also, that heavy head-chopper thrust through her leather belt.
Were those bloodstains?
“You're one of them!” he shouted, jumping to his feet and totally freaking out the already traumatized class. “You're one of those Viking Vixens from that old book!”
“Sit down,” the metamorphosed maiden ordered. “While you still have legs under you.”
Richard parked himself so fast he nearly toppled his desk.
“This picture is a good likeness, don't you think?” their teacher calmly resumed. Smiling like a warrioress about to guzzle a chalice brimming with blood, their transmogrified instructor reversed the colorful two-page spread for all to see. Knock everyone over with a kestrel feather if the figure in the book holding up a worried-looking severed head didn't look just like… Miss Maypole!
When she snapped the musty volume shut, dust puffed between its covers like a ghostly exclamation.
“Are you, like, Wonder Woman?” little Amy squealed. And under the glare of the entire class, instantly shut up.
“Would you all like to join us? Or would you prefer to die horribly?” their newly acquired leader inquired. “Except for you girls, of course, who might find yourselves part of the entertainment.”
“How could you betray us?” one of the unmentionably mentioned young ladies protested. “Aren’t we sisters?”
Viking Rule Number One is exactly the same as the Hell's Angels’: Never Challenge A Member.
“That is to be determined.”
Eyes flashing emerald fire, their appalling governess turned from the trembling Twyla. “I give you all a choice: Surrender your lives. Or roll with us. Those dragon ships are about to ground on Jericho Beach. So, decide. Quick!”
The class gasped. Nobody had ever heard a teacher talk like this. No one could imagine a schoolteacher as formerly demure as Miss Maypole saying such things!
“That’s not nice!” Martin burst out. “You’re not supposed to hurt our feelings. My dad says it’s…” his face scrunched in concentration... “ill-eagle!”
The big clock on the wall at the front of the room seemed to be ticking with unusual volume and force. Except the hands were moving backwards…
“Your point?” said the shape-shifting wolf-woman who had replaced their kindly mentor.
Wait. Didn't Viking children hold long colored ribbons as they danced in a circle around the Maypole during the spring planting festival? And what happened to them?
“Sign me up,” said the boy who had spoken up first.
“Me too,” squealed Megan.
“I vant Vikink very yes!” the Russian exchange student chimed in, somehow imagining ice cream. And that's how Miss Maypole's 8th graders became wolves of the sea before leaving their seats.
In what seemed like the very next instant, their Viking visitors burst into the Kits classroom with cries of pillage and delight,. Underscored, of course, by carefully rehearsed Nordic oaths.
Clad in animal skins, bones, bells, salt-stained black seaboots and elaborately streaked face-paint, their chieftain slammed to a halt.
“Sweetie pie!” he roared.
In the stunned silence that followed, the red-bearded, super-sized, antler-helmeted, urgently-in-need-of-a-steam-cleaning, hirsute monster dropped his double-axe with a heavy clang! Sweeping Miss Maypole clean off her feet with one massive paw, he hugged her as daintily as a daisy.
“Honey buns!” Miss Maypole shouted, wrapping both legs around his wide-belted waist and kissing him hard on greasy lips. “I knew you'd come!”
Photo Credits:
Viking longship underway -ar.inspiredpencil.com.jpg
Here come the vikings -ancientpedia.com