The Fauchard

I walked out into the courtyard after supper. The air was heavy and humid, but yet a crowd had gathered. The Bishop and The Lizard were disagreeing, as good friends do. I moved closer to see what the matter was.

"F-o-o-c-h-a-r-d," The Bishop confidently whispered.

"No, I believe it to be f-a-u-c-h-a-r," The Lizard politely replied.

"What are you two quarreling about this time," I grinned.

"The young ones are competing in a contest." The Lizard informed me, her hand presenting seven children on the crier's stand.

The Bishop elaborated: "One that tests the mind on accuracy of spelling a word."

"Hmm," I mused, looking over the nervous young faces, and my two academic friends in observance. "What word are they attempting to spell?" I finally asked.

"Foe-shard," The Bishop slowly sounded out for me.

"Oh, fauchard," I smiled, "f-a-u-c-h-a-r-d."

The Lizard's eyes grew wide along with her ever present smile. The Bishop turned with a frown.

"Why would you think it was spelled that way?" He asked.

"It's a weapon. Big poleaxe. I don't prefer it, but I've snapped a few in my day. I've also requisitioned them."

As if on cue, the competing child repeated my spelling and received an approval from the judge of the competition. I winked at The Lizard. The Bishop stared at me, his mouth slightly agape, trying to comprehend how a lug like myself might actually know how to spell the names of the tools of my trade.

I politely nodded and headed off for an evening drink, as the contest judge sounded out the next word: "Trit-uh-cay-lee."

I decided to keep walking and not enrage The Bishop with my knowledge of cereals and grains...


http://www.spellingbee.com/07bee/rounds/Round08.htm