Going Postal

but listen—”
    “The boots, sir, please!”
    Moist removed his shoes, very clumsily, and slid his feet into the invisible boots. They turned out to be as heavy as lead.
    “The Walk of the Unfranked Man is Heavy,” the booming voice intoned. “Let him continue!”
    Moist took another step forward, trod on something that rolled, stumbled headlong, and felt a stab of agony as his chin hit metal.
    “Postmen,” the booming voice demanded again, “what is the First Oath?”
    Voices sang out from the darkness, in chorus: “ Strewth, would you bleedin’ credit it? Toys, strollers, garden tools …they don’t care what they leaves out on the path on these dark mornings! ”
    “Did the Unfranked Man cry out?” the voice said.
    I think I’ve broken my chin , Moist thought as Groat dragged him to his feet. I think I’ve broken my chin! The old man hissed: “Well done, sir,” and then raised his voice to add for the benefit of the unseen watchers: “He crydeth out not, Worshipful Master, but was resolute!”
    “Then give unto him the Bag!” boomed the distant voice. Moist was beginning to loathe it.
    Unseen hands put a strap around Moist’s neck. When they let go, the weight on it bent him double.
    “The Postman’s Bag is Heavy, but soon it shall be Light!” echoed off the walls. No one had said anything about pain , Moist thought. Well, actually they did, but they didn’t say they meant it—
    “On we go, sir,” Groat urged, invisible at his side. “This is the Postman’s Walk, remember!”
    Moist edged forward, very carefully, and felt something rattle away.
    “He trod not upon the roller skate, Worshipful Master!” Groat reported to the invisible watchers.
    Moist, aching but heartened, tried two more hesitant steps, and there was another rattle as something bounced off his boot.
    “The Carelessly Abandoned Beer Bottle impeded him not!” Groat yelled triumphantly.
    Emboldened, Moist essayed a further step, trod on something slippery, and his foot headed off and up without him. He landed heavily on his back, his head thumping on the floor. He was sure he heard his own skull crack.
    “Postmen, what is the Second Oath?” the echoing voice commanded.
    “ Dogs! I tell you, there’s no such thing as a good one! If they don’t bite they all crap! It’s as bad as stepping on machine oil! ”
    Moist got to his knees, head spinning.
    “That’s right, that’s right, you keeps goin’!” hissed Groat, grabbing his elbow. “You get through, come rain or shine!” He lowered his voice even further. “Remember what it says on the building!”
    “ Mrs. Cake? ” Moist mumbled, and then thought: Was it rain or snow? Or sleet? He heard movement and hunched over the heavy bag as the water drenched him and an over-enthusiastic bucket bounced off his head.
    Rain, then. He straightened up just in time to feel biting coldness slither down the back of his neck, and nearly screamed.
    “That was ice cubes,” Groat whispered. “Got ’em from the mortuary, but don’t you worry, sir, they was hardly used…best we can do for snow, this time of year. Sorry! Don’t you worry about a thing, sir!”
    “Let the Mail be tested!” bellowed the all-commanding voice.
    Groat’s hand plunged into the bag while Moist staggered in a circle, and he raised a letter triumphantly.
    “I, Probationary Senior—oh, excuse me just a tick, Worshipful Master…” Moist felt his head being bent down to the level of Groat’s mouth, and the old man whispered: “Was that probationary or full Senior Postman, sir?”
    “What? Oh, full, yes, full!” said Moist, as iced water filled his shoes. “Definitely!”
    “I, Senior Postman Groat, do declare the mail to be as dry as a bone, Worshipful Master!” shouted Groat triumphantly.
    This time the cracked voice of authority held a hint of gleeful menace.
    “ Then let him…deliver it .”
    In the stifling gloom of the hood, Moist’s sense of danger barred the door and hid in the cellar. This was where the unseen chanters leaned forward. This was where it stopped being a game.
    “I haven’t actually written anything down, mark you,” he began, swaying.
    “Careful now, careful,” hissed Groat, ignoring him. “Nearly there! There’s a door right in front of you, there’s a letterbox—could he take a breather, Worshipful Master? He caught his head a nasty crack—”
    “A breather, Brother Groat? So’s you can give him another hint or two, maybe?” said the