The English Major
by Charles C. Cole
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
Phelps stood and wiped his wet hands down the sides of his pants. “A little light on alcohol, but not half-bad, given our sorry circumstances. What are you two discussing?”
“Just getting acquainted,” said Kip, simply.
“Planning on backstabbing me?” asked Phelps, eyes wide.
Kip winced at the sting, then moved on. “Not yet,” joked Kip, “I was saving that for tonight.”
“Come,” said Omar. “Your supreme benefactor awaits. We do not often get such exotic company. He will be very amused and a little paranoid. We have jealous neighbors. So long as you are not friends of our enemies, we will remain civil.”
The three, along with two guards who met them at the entrance, marched along a tiled hall to the throne room door. It was over twice the height of a “normal” door.
“Tall fella, ain’t he?” joked Phelps.
Omar raised his eyebrows, questioningly.
“He’s kidding,” explained Kip. “Americans — that’s what we are — we joke when we’re nervous. Some people get the hiccups when they eat really spicy food. They can’t help it. It’s like that.”
One of the guards slipped in first to announce them. Omar whispered through the cracked door. He returned quickly and opened one half of the door wide, while the other guard did the same with the other half. Then they closed it behind them, staying in the room.
The “lead” guard took a step and announced: “Supreme Field Marshal, I present two downed American aviators, pilot Hiram Phelps and companion.”
The tall black throne was three steps up on a red-and-gold dais. The Supreme Field Marshal, dressed all in white robes with gold trim, leaned back and appeared to be chewing his fingernails absently. He was wearing Phelps’s slightly large, white cowboy hat. He waved his guests forward, smiling proudly and broadly. “How do I look, Omar? Like a rodeo clown maybe. Bring them closer.”
Omar reached a hand onto each of the Americans’ shoulders and whispered: “For your safety, please, do not look him in the eyes, do not touch him and do not step onto his royal dais. And speak only when spoken to.”
“I feel a might underdressed,” mumbled Phelps.
“Believe me, it is better this way,” warned Omar. “His Highness is accustomed to meeting farmers and servants and shopkeepers. If you had accidentally dressed more formally than the man on the throne, then that would have been an unintended insult, punishable by death.”
“Good to know,” said Phelps.
“When we stop before him, kneel,” Omar continued. “Then he will command you to stand when he is ready to engage.”
The slow, formal processional felt almost as long as their walk in the desert. They stopped and knelt. Omar stepped to the side of the room, near a heavily curtained floor-to-ceiling window. Phelps sighed impatiently.
“You may rise,” said the Supreme Field Marshal in a deep, booming voice.
Kip and Phelps stood, heads slightly bowed to prevent accidental eye contact.
“Omar tells me you fell from the sky,” began the Supreme Field Marshal. “That must have been exciting, though not as thrilling as touching the clouds, soaring aloft with a flock of birds. I will freely admit to you: I think airplanes are pure magic, how they do what they do. I command a country, a small kingdom, keep order, make laws, discipline offenders, maintain our borders. It’s not for the casual upstart.
‘But flying goes against the natural order of things. So, it teases me. I have survived two coups with barely a scratch, but I would give up my throne for a day if I could look eye-to-eye into the sun, though not literally, of course.”
“Does he have a question?” mumbled Phelps.
“Shh,” said Kip.
“What was that?” asked the Supreme Field Marshal suddenly. He glanced at Omar for an explanation.
Omar put his hands together in prayer and bent his head: “Be gentle. They are foreigners who don’t understand our ways.”
The two guests shook their heads and, to an extent, their entire bodies.
“I hear you’re from America,” continued the Supreme Field Marshal. “There are so many Americas. It’s hard to keep them straight: South America, Central America, Mesoamerica, North America, including Canada. And the United States of America. Is that it? Did you fly all the way here in that little plane?”
The two guests shook their heads.
“Omar says you brought me the plane for my birthday, though a little late. I tell you, I have received many great things: herds of camels, baskets of gemstones, beautiful women, not so beautiful women who have other talents, but never a plane.”
The Supreme Field Marshal stood. He approached. He descended a step. “You don’t look very scary,” he said. “Just average people. Like my mother, I’m empathic, which guides my rulings. I get a sense of people’s inner emotions, which is helpful if they’re lying to me: I can see through pretense. And I sense you are not happy with me. Maybe because the plane is not really a gift. Is that it?
“Let me guess. You spotted my humble airstrip — which I’ve never used by the way. It was meant to entice a prince to visit. Or was it that rude oilman, Omar? No matter, you were going to crash for some reason, and we saved you: an oasis in the desert. And then Omar remembered how much I obsess over planes: majestic metallic angels, I call them. He meant well. Am I right?”
Phelps nodded.
“I tell you what, I’m in a good mood. I’ve lived eight years longer than my father, had more lasting peace than he saw while on the throne, and people generally leave us alone. Let’s take you back to your plane and let you do what you need to do. Then you give me a once-in-a-lifetime ride. Show me what’s up there. And then you can go on your merry way.”
Phelps froze: the solution to his problems was too easy. Was this a set-up?
“Speak!” commanded the impatient leader. “Or you can die in my dungeons. That’s an option, too. They tell me the rats are very hungry. I starve them with my mid-life benevolence. Consequences have consequences. Last chance, pilot man: Show me how big my kingdom really is, and I will reward you. I warn you, I may get a little scared or giddy or try to jump out and fly with my own arms, but that will be our little secret. Do we have a deal?”
Phelps nodded, careful not to look up.
“No, Mr. Hiram Phelps of America,” said the Supreme Field Marshal, leaning forward, “for this part, I need to hear your solemn promise, your sacred vow. We’ve never done succession planning here. We crash, and the kingdom will fall, as simple as that. So, can you be a gentle man? Can you thrill me without killing me?”
“I can. Yes, I promise, Your Highness,” said Phelps. Was it Kip’s imagination or did the last two words struggle to come out?
“Let us wait until things cool down a little. You look like you could do with a nap, and I have a country to govern.”
* * *
Phelps and Kip were given a servant’s bare bedroom to rest in during the hottest part of the day: just big enough for a futon on the floor, with a small window high up along the wall for light and a door locked from the outside. They looked at each other as they listened to the latches fall into place.
“At least we’re alive,” said Kip at last.
“For now,” said Phelps. “I have a sneaky suspicion that if the moody monarch stubs his toe, he has a couple of convenient whipping boys to lash out at.”
Kip squeezed his back against the furthest corner; he needed space to think. So much had happened since dinner the previous day. And so much could yet happen. “Are you really going to take him up in your plane?”
“I’ll do whatever he wants if it means getting out of here. But you heard him: he’s scared of flying. When push comes to shove, he’ll chicken out, I know the type.”
Instinctively, Kip covered his own mouth with both his hands.
“This is not my fault. Alright, it’s a little my fault.” Kip’s shocked face said: And?
“What’s wrong? What’d I say?” said Phelps.
“You heard Omar: we can be executed for wearing a tie if the man in charge thinks he’s being insulted. Show a little respect. Or at least caution. Who knows how whispers travel through these walls?”
“Omar? Was someone getting acquainted, and I missed it?”
“I gave him our names, both our names, so we were no longer faceless strangers. And then he gave me his. It’s called reciprocity.”
“Fine,” snapped Phelps. “Maybe I’m wrong. His eyes were as big as dinner plates. In which case, he’ll keep me around until we land. Then, as soon as he steps out, I’ll book it for the closest horizon.”
Kip shook his head, disappointed.
“If I can take you, I will,” assured Phelps. “But we’re living in dangerous times. I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep.”
“What about Algiers?” asked Kip.
“You’ll get there. You’re young yet. Going to Algiers is your plane ride. Speaking of eyes as big as dinner plates! That’s who His Highness reminded me of: you.” It was probably true.
* * *
The sound of a gentle cough. Kip opened his eyes. Omar was standing in the open door, and Phelps was nowhere to be seen.
“What’d I miss?” asked Kip, jumping to his feet.
“Nothing so far,” said Omar. “The Supreme Field Marshal wanted to see if he could swim high in the air. I offered to watch from the ground, but he said my anxiety would only bring bad luck and so he ordered me to return to the palace, so he would not have to look at me.”
“It’ll be fine. People do it all the time. This is not new technology,” said Kip.
“Or,” countered Omar, “they are going to crash. And the kingdom I love with all my heart will be overrun by an invading horde of foreign assassins.”
“He’s right. It’s probably best you didn’t watch. You don’t want to have a panic attack in front of your soldiers.”
Omar nodded in assent. He glanced about the small, simple room.
“Admiring my cell?” asked Kip.
“Compared to the damp, dark cells in the dungeon, Kip ‘Too Farr,’ this is the epitome of luxury. But it is still small. I would go crazy in one night behind this locked door. Maybe because I am used to better living.”
“It’s an adjustment for me as well,” said Kip. “Phelps and I haven’t known each other very long. And he snores.”
“Then let us move to my office. We have things to discuss.”
Two solemn guards shadowed them down a long hallway, up a set of wide stone stairs, and down another long hallway. The place was empty.
ƒ“Where is everyone?” asked Kip, slightly uneasy.
“His Highness thinks exposing the staff to Americans could lead to trouble; you all have such a distorted sense of your self-worth. The spirit of democracy is very contagious. And, in this case, dangerous to the status quo.”
Omar unlocked a simple wooden door. The room within was expansive: a large desk, animal skins on the floor, animal heads on the walls, and an extensive collection of leather-bound books and — unlike Kip’s cell — an entire wall of windows.
“I have no words,” said Kip.
“Not a problem,” said Omar, gesturing to his full shelves, “my many books have more than enough for both of us.”
“Funny man.” Kip felt a primal pull to review the titles, but held back out of respect and, a little, fear. “May I?”
“Caress them? Smell them? Read them?” teased Omar. “Is the English major in his personal heaven?”
“You knew all along I wasn’t from England!”
“We are both — What’s the term? — reluctant expats, living far away from our true home, fantastic and pure, dangerous and welcoming.”
“You’re an interesting guy, Omar.”
“You have no idea.” The words should have been a moment of pride with Omar standing taller, chin higher, but even Kip could see the sadness in Omar’s eyes. For a moment, Kip thought of the many local lawbreakers Omar had probably broken. Perhaps executions had been ordered or even torture. Best not to get too chummy, thought Kip.
“Please have a seat,” said Omar, indicating a stiff guest chair.
“Can I choose the lovely reader’s throne behind the desk?” It was a lap of luxury while his was merely functional.
“No, you cannot.”
They sat. For a moment, they made eye contact. The moment wasn’t as threatening as Kip had expected, but he did feel vulnerable, like his worth had just been assessed and categorized. Whatever was about to transpire, Omar was all business again.
Kip noticed both an old black microscope and magnifying glass on a side table. Am I being examined? “What’s up?” asked Kip.
“Your friend—”
“Companion,” corrected Kip.
Omar bristled. “Mr. Phelps has brought us a plane and a pilot to add to our collection.”
“I thought His Highness was going to let him leave if he gave him a ride. Wasn’t that the deal?”
“Perhaps. Who can say? The Supreme Field Marshal says many wonderful things, which he means when he says them, but he also has to balance feel-good messaging with what is best for the long-term survival of the kingdom.”
Kip was feeling deceived. This wasn’t just a quaint little nation hidden in the Sahara like a North African Shangri-La. He had trespassed, however involuntarily. Phelps had arrived like a threat from the sky for which they had not been prepared. There were lessons to be learned, course corrections to be made.
“Why ‘The Supreme Field Marshal’?” blurted Kip. “Before you execute me, I gotta know. Don’t you people use terms like khalifa or sheikh?”
Omar was losing control of the interview. He pushed back from the desk. But then he smiled, coldly, as the first time they had met. “Our people have many respectful names for our glorious leaders, only a few, I’m sure, familiar to you.
Copyright © 2026 by Charles C. Cole
