by Walt Staples
“The Law was made for Man, not Man for the Law.”
– a Galilean carpenter.
Major Erik Mellien looked up from the papers in his hands at the knock on the door and called, “Come.”
The officer from the Judge Advocate General, Captain Meyer, opened the door and walked in. Mellien eyed the folder in the JAG’s hand with a distaste made up of a 60/40 mixture of experience and fear. Lawyers carrying papers were rarely a good thing in the Fallschirmjäger major’s life.
He attempted to keep his voice light as he asked, “Yet more papers for my overflowing desk, Oskar?”
The Captain smiled his best “evil gnome” grin at the tall man sitting at the desk. Even standing before Mellien, he had to look slightly up at the blond Major. “Rare good news this time, sir. My bunch is finished with the review of the provincial laws. Most will pass muster with no problem.”
Mellien’s eyebrows rose. “What, no virgin sacrifice?”
Meyer continued grinning. “Well, there is one ‘Section 4.’”
The Major deflated slightly. Section 4 of the Imperial Code was one of the regulations most hated by the officers assigned as military governors of recently conquered additions to Erin’s Empire. It read in part: “The Military Government shall endeavor to bring the existing laws into line with those pertaining in the Empire while continuing to respect the traditions of the newly annexed peoples.”
Some very bizarre local laws survived on many planets as a result. The regulation was, however, a wise one. Prior to its implementation, a number of rebellions had exploded over what, to the occupying power, had been a minor change in native law. That simple humanity sparked the writing of the section only added to the irony.
Mellien leaned back and braced himself for what was to come. “Alright, Oskar, what idiotic custom are we to respect?”
It was obvious the JAG was enjoying this. “Sir, the only law we found that wasn’t amenable to blending with Imperial statutes reads: “It is illegal to shave a fish on Sunday.”
Mellien blinked. After a moment, he asked somewhat in the manner of a man peeking out at a ticking bomb, “That’s it?”
Meyer nodded. “That’s it, sir.”
The military governor shrugged. “Okay, so they don’t like people slicing fish on Sunday?”
The short, dark man’s grin returned. “Not slicing fish, sir, shaving them.”
“Huh?”
“Shaving, sir. As in ‘beard.’” The JAG was having much too much fun for a military matter.
The major gaped at him. After a moment, he became aware of this and snapped his mouth shut with a visible effort. He thought for a few beats and made his decision—dropping from orbit in an egg so people on the ground could shoot at one tended to make for fast thinkers.
“I can’t see where such a law contravenes either Imperial law and regulations or moral law. It stays in force. Okay, Captain, get them printed out and posted and circulated. Where do I sign?”
Sitting back in his chair after the JAG had departed, Mellien continued to puzzle about the law. Why would anyone want to shave a beard off a fish, even on days other than Sunday? The Fallschirmjäger major had been a military man for twenty-two Standard years and knew the secret to learning the answer to any question—you ask a sergeant. He pushed a button to buzz for Sergeant Major Dietz. While he waited, he idly considered replacing the archaic interoffice signaling system with a proper command suite. Used to touching screens and plates, it took an effort to remember to actually push the buttons.
Sergeant Major Dietz was built along the lines of Captain Meyer, though broader. His expression, as usual, gave the impression that all was well in the Empire. Of course, his expression had been the same back on Arkm as he directed the surrounded headquarters company’s fire with a large hole in his calf.
“Yes, sir?”
Mellien kept his face serious as he asked in a dead flat voice, “Sergeant Major, you’re something of a sportsman, aren’t you?”
“I hunt and fish, sir,” he allowed.
“Okay, I have a question about the local wildlife.”
“Yes, sir?”
The major continued to be the no nonsense battalion commander as he asked, “Are there fish on this planet that have hair?”
Dietz considered this question about hairy fish as he would any other such normal request from his CO and replied, “No, sir. Not that I’m aware of.”
Mellien nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant Major. Another question. Who would be able to tell me the thinking behind a local law?”
Rather than his usual two second run time, the battalion’s senor NCO took three seconds before answering, “Popins, the village mayor. He loves us about as much as the other locals, but he’s truthful and realistic enough to accept that we’re not going anywhere soon.”
Mellien smiled. “Good. Send someone reliable to tell him that I’d like to see him at his convenience. Those words, Sergeant Major.”
“Yes, sir.”
The military governor went back to the Empire’s version of the labors of Sisyphus.
Bernard Popins was an elderly, gangling man. While it was obvious he bore the Empire little love, as the sergeant major had warned, he also didn’t waste his time in glaring. “You wished to see me, Major?” His Standard was thickly accented.
Mellien pointed to the chair beside his desk with an open hand and replied in near-flawless Canadian, “Yes, Mayor, thank you for coming. If you’ll have a seat, sir?” He silently thanked his professor father for having forced him to study ancient languages growing up.
The Mayor’s right eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly and he sat down. He fumbled a moment and produced a pipe carved from a red stone. He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows asking permission. Mellien proffered his open cigar box. “I would be honored if you would try one of mine, sir.”
There was a pause as Popins looked at the major, then putting his pipe away, selected a cigar. He lighted it with a spark and wheel flame lighter. He drew on the cigar and made an appreciative face. The Fallschirmjäger major’s one vanity was a good cigar. The mayor settled back and asked in the locally accented Canadian, “Is there something you wish, Major?”
Mellien came straight to the point, “Why do you have a law against shaving a fish on Sunday?”
The corner of Popins’ mouth quirked, followed by a wide grin. “Ah, that. Well, Major, as the saying goes, ‘Thereby hangs a tale.’” He relaxed and continued, “We are Brethren of Goshen—you know of us?”
Mellien nodded. “Yes, a little. I’m a Catholic, a number of my officers and men are Lutherans and other Protestants, and we have a few Jews. But I’ve met a number of Brethren groups from time to time. Why?”
“We believe one shouldn’t do any unnecessary labor on our day of worship, Sunday. Now that fish matter goes back three generations…”
Toby Case sat in the shade of the largest oak on the village green. He felt that delicious relaxation that comes of knowing that, for the next hour or so, he had no need to bestir himself. It was summer, the slight rustle of the oak’s leaves in the breeze was pleasant, and, best of all, it was Sunday. Sunday in the Shire was a quiet day for the constable. People were generally too tired to get into trouble after six days of farming’s heavy labor. The most that Toby and his bailiffs had to do on a normal Sunday might be to help shoo someone’s cows back into their proper field. Best of all, Milton Spork, the shire’s reeve was probably tucking into to a massive dinner followed by a long nap and wouldn’t be heard from the rest of the day. Toby mused if he should he go fishing or wander over and watch the ball game? Decisions, decisions.
Toby became aware that something on the other side of the green moved with an un-Sunday like speed. He focused on it and thought a word he shouldn’t. Milton Spork was puffing and had worked up a sweat as he approached the bench on which the constable lazed. He stopped and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face and bald pate. As usual, he started in the middle.
“Constable, you’ve got to do something about it.”
Toby looked up at the round man with distaste. It irked him that in the sixteen years of their relationship, Milton had never called him Toby or even Case. Always it was “constable,” as if Toby had to be reminded of his place in the scheme of the shire. The tall, thin man answered him in a quiet, patient voice.
“Yes, Milton, I suppose I should. I am, as you point out, the constable. Now that that’s settled, what exactly am I doing something about this fine and, up until just lately, pleasant day?”
“It’s Jasper Shanks,” the reeve exploded.
Toby watched the other’s face redden even further. Maybe he’ll pop something. He pushed the happy thought away and asked, “And what is Jasper up to this time?”
“He’s set himself up a new religion, that’s what, constable. He’s preaching it to a crowd up on Lone Oak Hill. You’ve got to do something.”
That surprised Toby. Shanks was a no-account and a grifter, but even he normally stopped at blasphemy. Toby thought quickly. “Okay, here’s what needs to be done. I’m going to round up Reverend Mike and a couple of bailiffs and head up there. You need to be centrally located in case something else breaks out. Best be in your office in Village Hall where you can act immediately.”
Milton’s three chins wobbled nicely as he nodded. “Yes. That’s good. Yes—oh, the reverend is already there.”
Toby smiled at him and nodded in agreement. “Fine, I’ll pick up Barney and Tim on my way. Now, remember, everything depends on you being in your office. That’s the most important thing.”
As always, Toby marveled as he watched Milton scuttle off, and that something of that bulk could actually scuttle.
Reverend Michael Talbot was standing at the edge of the crowd with his arms crossed when Toby and the two bailiffs joined him. The constable hadn’t bothered to arm himself with anything other than his dagger of office, though Barney and the hulking Tim carried their crossbows as unobtrusively as possible. Under the lone oak tree that crowned the hill, Jasper Shanks could be seen holding forth surrounded by a crowd of villagers and farm folk. His voice, clear and melodious, carried well. Toby asked out the side of his mouth, “Hear Jasper’s gone and got him a new religion.”
Reverend Mike replied in the same manner. “Not a new one. A new riff maybe. Says the Lord has shown him a sign of His greatness.”
Toby half grinned. “Well, if anyone needed a sign, I suspect it would be Jasper. What exactly is this marvel?”
“A fish that grows hair.”
Toby did a double-take. “Come again?”
The slight preacher grinned. “Like I said, ‘a fish that grows hair.’”
Toby pulled a doubtful face. “And what does this wonder portend, Reverend?”
“It portends that Jasper needs money from my flock to build a proper place to celebrate and reenact the miracle each Sunday. Apparently, it’s necessary to shave the fish each Sunday.”
Toby nodded. “So Jasper is looking to do a little ‘shearing’ among your flock?”
Reverend Mike nodded in agreement. “Yep. That’s about the size of it.” He continued, “I suspect, though, that there’s more a matter of raising money so he can go to Bill Mears and ask for Betsy’s hand.”
The constable’s jaw tensed. It was no secret that he was interested in Bill’s redheaded daughter. So far, Bill had kept his own council saying neither yay nor nay. Betsy seemed favorable but would likely take her cue from her father. Toby found it a ticklish situation, he being ten years her senior. Mab being gone these six years, he considered it probably was time he remarried.
Toby asked, “So what do we do? Call together the church elders? It’s been a couple of hundred years since we had to burn anybody.”
The preacher paled. “Don’t even jest about that sort of thing. All it would take is a spark and the whole shire could go up.” He thought for a minute and continued. “No, we don’t want to get into the theology of the matter. You and I know the Lord doesn’t generally work this way, but there are a lot of our folks who chase after the miraculous. They would latch onto this in a minute. It could split the shire down the middle.”
Toby scratched his unshaven chin. Being the Sabbath, it was, of course, illegal to shave in the shire. He grinned slowly. “Reverend, I think maybe this might be a matter for the Mayor and the Council.”
Reverend Mike ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, a big part of Jasper’s hustle seems to entail proving the fish miraculously grows hair by shaving it right? And everyone is too busy just making a living the other six days to spare time for such a thing. Well, I say if a man, who is made in God’s image, can’t shave on Sunday, why should a fish be allowed to be shaved on Sunday?”
Poplins smiled at Mellien. “And that, my dear Major, is why it’s illegal to shave a fish on Sunday.”
The Fallschirmjäger shook his head. “Amazing. So what came of it?”
The mayor took a pull on his cigar. “Jasper went on to other schemes. Toby got Betsy and beget my mother, who eventually married, and I happened along some time later. So you see, there are often good reasons for laws in the first place…”
© 2010 Walt Staples
Original fiction debuting at Residential Aliens.
Tags: sci-fi/fantasy, short story, Walt Staples
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