THE GLUBB COURT ALMANAC OF WET THINGS

A Proclamation, From the Throne (the throne beneath the throne)

Let it be known throughout the dry world above that everything wet in this castle is the property of the Crown — and that everything in this castle is, eventually, wet. The lords think they rule from the Great Hall. Charming. We rule from beneath it, from the foundations they are standing on, which we hold, which are ours, which is why the whole pile is sinking toward us, slowly, like a guest finally coming to pay his respects.

We found a crown in the muck. We put it on. That is how a dynasty begins. They will tell you we stole a wig — we did, it was funny, it is not the point. The crown is the point. The water is the point. We are the point. GLUB.

Each entry: The Wet Thing · By Royal Decree · (and the truth, in smaller, wetter letters).

The Foundations

The Wet Thing. The waterlogged base of the entire castle, where stone meets mire. By Royal Decree. The true seat of the realm. Whosoever holds the foundations holds the house; we hold the foundations; therefore the house is ours, and the man upstairs is our tenant, whether he has noticed or not. (the truth, smaller and wetter) — He has not noticed. None of them ever do. A king nobody recognises is still a king. He is just a lonely one.

The Moat

The Wet Thing. The great ring of water, presently a colour with no name. By Royal Decree. Our front garden, our defence, and our archive — every shameful thing the castle ever tried to make vanish was thrown in the moat, and the moat kept it. (smaller, wetter) — Lord Reggie tried to make it a "love lagoon." We do not speak of what the love lagoon left behind. We merely rule it now, and charge no rent, being gracious.

The U-Bends (the Royal Apartments)

The Wet Thing. The pipes. The deep, curved, private pipes. By Royal Decree. The throne room proper. A lesser monarch sits on a chair. We sit at the very bend of the castle's business, where all things come, eventually, down. (smaller, wetter) — It is not glamorous. It is, in the most literal sense, the bottom. But it is ours, and it is warm, and a frog who has been called nothing his whole life will take a warm bend in a pipe and call it a palace, and dare you to laugh.

The Rain

The Wet Thing. Weather. Constant, grey, generous weather. By Royal Decree. Tribute. The sky itself pays the Crown in water, daily, without being asked, which is more than any subject of the dry king has ever done. (smaller, wetter) — We worship the goddess Mildew, Our Lady of the Damp, for she is the only deity in this realm who reliably turns up. The dry folk's gods can't be bothered. Ours floods the cellar like clockwork. A god who shows up is worth ten who don't.

The Tadpoles

The Wet Thing. Four hundred of them. Give or take. They move about. By Royal Decree. Heirs and spares and a standing army, the future of the dynasty, every one of them a prince of the muck. (smaller, wetter) — Every one of them calls me Dad. I know they are tadpoles. I know most will not make it to legs. But for now there are four hundred small wet things in the dark who are glad I exist, which is four hundred more than the man upstairs can say, and I would flood the whole castle to the battlements before I let one of them be sent down a hole with a number instead of a name. (We have an understanding, the Crown and the Woods. We do not advertise it. GLUB.)

The Dry World Above

The Wet Thing. Not wet. Yet. By Royal Decree. Pitied. They live up there in the draughts and the dust and the pretending, clutching a deed to a house that is quietly, patiently, returning to the water that was here first. (smaller, wetter) — Be patient with the dry. They cannot help it. Everything comes down to us in the end — the rain, the rubbish, the secrets, the castle itself, inch by inch by inch. We do not need to rise. We only need to wait, and to keep the foundations, and to love our four hundred ridiculous children in the warm dark while we do. That is the whole of statecraft, beneath the throne. GLUB.