Mr. Postman and the King's Mail - Wots The Verdict Mr. Postman and the King's Mail

Prologue

By the time Mr. Postman became a Royal Postman, there was scarcely a railway worker in Britain who had not heard his name.
Stationmasters spoke of him.
Signalmen spoke of him.
Ferry captains spoke of him.
Even old fishermen sitting beside harbour walls told stories about him while watching the tide roll in.
Some stories were true.
Some were not.
People claimed he had once crossed the Highlands during a storm so fierce that sheep were blown backwards.
Others insisted he had delivered a birthday card to a lighthouse before the birthday itself had arrived.
One railway porter swore that he had seen Mr. Postman board three different trains at the same time.
Nobody quite believed that last one.
Still, the stories continued.
Mr. Postman himself paid little attention to them.
He had letters to deliver.
That was enough for him.
On a bright morning in early spring, a letter arrived at his cottage.
The envelope was cream-coloured.
The seal upon it was gold.
The sort of gold that suggested somebody important had paid for it.
Mr. Postman adjusted his spectacles and read the front.
Then he blinked.
Then he read it again.
Finally he placed the letter on the table and poured himself another cup of tea.
After all, important letters should never be rushed.
Especially when they were addressed to you.
The message inside was short.
Very short.
Far shorter than most letters Mr. Postman delivered.
It simply read:
“Mr. Postman,
You are requested to attend Buckingham Palace on the first day of April at eleven o’clock in the morning.
Attendance is required.
Further details shall be provided upon arrival.”
Mr. Postman read it a third time.
Then he folded it neatly and placed it in his pocket.
“Well,” he said.
“That’s interesting.”
The next morning he boarded a train bound for London.
Now most people, upon receiving an invitation to Buckingham Palace, would have spent the entire journey wondering why they had been summoned.
Mr. Postman spent the journey helping an elderly passenger find her ticket and sorting a bundle of letters that had become mixed together in his bag.
By the time the train reached London, he had almost forgotten about the palace entirely.
Almost.
The city bustled around him as he made his way through crowded streets.
Black cabs rolled by.
Tourists hurried along pavements.
The great clock tower stood against the sky.
And at last he reached the palace gates.
A guard checked his invitation.
Another checked his name.
A third checked both again.
Then the gates opened.
Mr. Postman walked through.
Inside, officials hurried through corridors carrying documents.
Messengers moved from room to room.
Staff members whispered to one another.
The entire palace seemed busy.
Yet somehow perfectly organised.
Eventually he was shown into a large chamber.
Several other Royal Postmen stood waiting.
Their uniforms were immaculate.
Their medals shone brightly.
Most had spent decades serving the Postal Service.
All of them looked curious.
A few minutes later a senior official entered the room.
He carried a folder beneath one arm.
The room immediately fell silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said.
“Thank you for attending.”
He opened the folder.
“Recent events have created a rather unusual problem.”
Nobody spoke.
The official cleared his throat.
“There exists a British expedition thousands of miles from home.”
He turned a page.
“The route to them has become increasingly difficult.”
Another page.
“The amount of undelivered mail is growing.”
Another page.
“The situation has now reached a level that requires Royal Postal intervention.”
The room grew quieter still.
Then the official looked up.
“We require a volunteer.”
Nobody moved.
Not immediately.
Not because the Royal Postmen were afraid.
But because everybody knew that when an official described a mission as unusual, it was usually much worse than unusual.
The official continued.
“The journey will involve considerable travel.”
Silence.
“Potential hardship.”
Silence.
“Significant risk.”
Even more silence.
Then, from the back of the room, a chair scraped gently against the floor.
Every head turned.
Mr. Postman stood up.
The official smiled.
For somehow, he had suspected this might happen.
And far beyond Britain, beyond Europe, beyond the familiar routes of trains and ferries, a journey was already waiting.
The greatest journey Mr. Postman had ever undertaken.
A journey that would carry the King’s Mail to the edge of the known world.

Chapter One: The King’s Mission

The following morning, Mr. Postman found himself standing in a room so grand that even the carpets seemed important.
Tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling.
Paintings of kings, queens, admirals, explorers, and statesmen lined the walls.
A great clock ticked quietly in one corner.
Everything felt very serious.
Mr. Postman tried not to step on anything expensive.
He wasn’t entirely successful.
An official quickly moved a rather valuable-looking vase before he could accidentally knock it over.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Postman.
The official looked relieved.
Moments later, a set of doors opened.
Everyone in the room stood immediately.
Mr. Postman stood too, although he was still trying to understand why everyone looked so nervous.
Into the room walked Charles III.
The King smiled warmly.
“Mr. Postman.”
“Your Majesty.”
The King gestured toward a chair.
“Please, sit.”
Mr. Postman sat.
The King sat.
The officials remained standing.
For several moments nobody spoke.
The King studied a large map spread across the table between them.
Britain sat near one corner.
The rest of the world stretched out beyond it.
There were red markings, blue markings, routes, notes, circles, arrows, and symbols.
It looked less like a map and more like somebody had dropped a box of coloured pencils onto it.
Finally the King broke the silence.
“Tell me, Mr. Postman.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“How far would you travel to deliver a letter?”
Mr. Postman considered the question carefully.
He always considered letters carefully.
“Well, that depends.”
The officials leaned forward.
“Depends on what?” asked the King.
“Whether the train’s running.”
Several officials sighed.
The King laughed.
A genuine laugh.
One that echoed around the room.
“Excellent.”
He pointed toward Britain on the map.
“You’ve travelled here.”
Mr. Postman nodded.
The King’s finger moved north.
“And here.”
Another nod.
Then west.
Then east.
Then to islands so small they were hardly visible.
Mr. Postman nodded each time.
The King folded his arms.
“And yet there remains one route that nobody has managed to complete.”
Now that got Mr. Postman’s attention.
He adjusted his spectacles.
“Nobody?”
“Nobody.”
The King pointed toward North Africa.
Far south of Britain.
Far beyond the routes Mr. Postman knew best.
Far beyond the familiar world of ferries and railway stations.
A red circle had been drawn in the middle of a vast desert.
Mr. Postman stared at it.
“That’s quite far.”
“Yes.”
“Not much railway.”
“Very little.”
“Hmm.”
The officials exchanged nervous glances.
This was generally the point where people realised how difficult the mission was.
Mr. Postman instead appeared to be wondering whether he ought to bring an extra pair of socks.
The King continued.
“Several years ago, Britain established an expedition there.”
He tapped the red circle.
“Scientists.”
“Explorers.”
“Researchers.”
“They’ve been studying the region and carrying out important work.”
Mr. Postman nodded politely.
“Very good.”
“The problem,” said the King, “is that they have become increasingly isolated.”
The room fell quiet.
“Their letters from home are delayed.”
“Their messages arrive months late.”
“Some never arrive at all.”
The King’s voice softened.
“There are fathers who have never received news of their children.”
“There are mothers waiting for replies.”
“There are families who no longer know how their loved ones are doing.”
Mr. Postman looked down at the map.
Suddenly the red circle seemed much more important.
For a moment nobody spoke.
The ticking clock filled the room.
Then Mr. Postman asked the question everyone expected.
“When do I leave?”
The officials nearly fell over.
One man actually dropped a folder.
The King smiled again.
“I had hoped you’d say that.”
He opened a leather case resting beside him.
Inside was a polished brass badge unlike any Mr. Postman had seen before.
Upon it were engraved the words:
ROYAL POSTMAN
The room became silent.
Even the clock seemed quieter.
The King lifted the badge.
“Mr. Postman.”
“In recognition of your service to Britain.”
“In recognition of your dedication.”
“And in recognition of your refusal to allow any letter to be left behind.”
The King pinned the badge to his uniform.
“I hereby appoint you Royal Postman.”
The officials began applauding.
The sound filled the room.
Yet Mr. Postman barely noticed.
His attention had already returned to the map.
More specifically, the enormous desert.
“Do they have postboxes?” he asked.
The King blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“At the expedition.”
“Do they have postboxes?”
One official buried his face in his hands.
The King laughed once more.
“I suspect they’ll have one by the time you arrive.”
“Good.”
Mr. Postman stood.
“That makes things easier.”
The King walked him toward the great doors.
Before they opened, he spoke one final time.
“Mr. Postman.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Many believe this journey impossible.”
Mr. Postman thought about that.
Then he shrugged.
“Most journeys are impossible until somebody does them.”
The King smiled.
The doors opened.
And beyond them waited ships.
Railways.
Foreign cities.
Deserts.
Mountains.
Unknown routes.
And somewhere far beyond the horizon sat a mountain of undelivered letters waiting for the one man foolish enough to come and collect them.
Fortunately for Britain,
Mr. Postman was exactly that sort of man.

Chapter Two: The Long Way Round

Most people, after being given a mission by the King, would probably spend the next few days preparing.
They would study maps.
They would attend meetings.
They would ask questions.
They would gather equipment.
Mr. Postman bought a notebook, two pencils, and a larger teapot.
Then he reported to Southampton Harbour three days later.
The officials were not entirely surprised.
By now they had learned that Mr. Postman approached extraordinary situations in an extraordinarily ordinary manner.
The harbour was alive with activity.
Crates were being loaded.
Ropes were being pulled.
Steam rose from ships waiting to depart.
Sailors shouted instructions across the docks.
Somewhere a gull was arguing with another gull about a sandwich.
Mr. Postman admired the organisation of it all.
A tall official approached carrying a clipboard.
“Mr. Postman?”
“Good morning.”
“The ship is prepared.”
“Excellent.”
“The journey to Gibraltar will take several days.”
“Very good.”
“The weather forecast predicts rough seas.”
“That’s weather for you.”
The official stared.
Mr. Postman smiled.
The official decided further conversation was unlikely to be helpful.
The great vessel slowly pulled away from the harbour.
Britain began shrinking behind them.
The white cliffs became smaller.
The coastline faded.
Soon only the sea remained.
For several days the voyage was peaceful.
Mr. Postman spent much of his time talking with sailors, helping organise parcels, and attempting to improve the ship’s filing system.
The captain politely asked him to stop reorganising the navigation room.
On the fourth evening, a storm arrived.
Now sailors are generally quite familiar with storms.
Ships are built with storms in mind.
Captains expect storms.
This storm, however, seemed to have developed a personal dislike of the vessel.
Waves crashed against the hull.
Rain hammered the decks.
The wind screamed through the rigging.
The captain stood upon the bridge watching the chaos.
“I don’t like this one,” he muttered.
Below deck, Mr. Postman was securing a crate of letters.
One of the sailors stumbled inside.
“We’re taking heavy seas!”
“Very unfortunate.”
“The captain says everyone should stay below.”
“A sensible idea.”
The sailor blinked.
“Aren’t you worried?”
Mr. Postman looked up.
“Worried about what?”
The sailor pointed toward the ceiling as another wave struck.
“The storm!”
“Oh.”
Mr. Postman thought for a moment.
Then he shook his head.
“I’ve seen worse.”
The sailor frowned.
“At sea?”
“No.”
“Where then?”
“Manchester.”
Nobody ever discovered whether he was joking.
The storm lasted throughout the night.
By morning it had moved eastward.
The sea calmed.
The ship survived.
The captain looked considerably older.
Several days later they reached Gibraltar.
Huge cliffs rose from the sea.
The harbour bustled with vessels from every corner of the world.
For the first time in his life, Mr. Postman stood at the gateway between Europe and Africa.
Ahead lay a continent he had never visited.
A continent of deserts, mountains, ancient cities, and unfamiliar routes.
The official accompanying him unfolded a map.
“Our route continues from here.”
Mr. Postman examined it.
The line stretched southward.
Very southward.
In fact, it stretched so far southward that it nearly disappeared off the page.
“That’s quite a journey.”
“Yes.”
“Any railways?”
“A few.”
“Any post offices?”
“Very few.”
“Hmm.”
The official pointed at a city marked on the map.
“This is your next destination.”
Mr. Postman nodded.
“And after that?”
The official pointed farther inland.
“And after that.”
Mr. Postman nodded again.
“And after that?”
The official pointed deep into the desert.
There was a very long silence.
Eventually Mr. Postman said,
“That’s an unusual place for a post office.”
The official laughed despite himself.
Then his expression became serious.
“Mr. Postman.”
“Yes?”
“Beyond this point, there will be very little help.”
“No trains?”
“Very few.”
“Roads?”
“Some.”
“Reliable roads?”
The official hesitated.
“Not particularly.”
Mr. Postman folded the map.
“Well then.”
The official waited.
“Well then what?”
Mr. Postman adjusted his Royal Postman badge.
“Looks like we’ll have to make our own route.”
Far away, beyond the coast and beyond the mountains, the desert stretched endlessly toward the horizon.
Somewhere within that vast wilderness sat the expedition.
Waiting.
Writing letters.
Hoping for news from home.
And although they did not know it yet, a Royal Postman was already on his way.
The difficult part of the journey was about to begin.
The easy part had merely been getting there.

Chapter Three: Cairo

The sea had finally calmed.
The storm that had chased the ship across the Mediterranean now lingered far behind them, grumbling somewhere beyond the horizon.
Mr. Postman stood at the rail as the African coast slowly appeared.
At first it was only a faint line.
Then came buildings.
Then towers.
Then harbours.
Then an entire world unlike anything he had seen before.
The sailors gathered along the deck.
“There she is,” said one.
“Africa.”
Mr. Postman adjusted his spectacles.
“Looks rather large.”
“It is rather large.”
“That’ll make the delivery interesting.”
The sailors laughed.
The captain shook his head.
Only Mr. Postman could look at an entire continent and immediately think about delivery routes.
By afternoon they had reached port.
The harbour was alive with movement.
Ships from dozens of nations crowded the docks.
Merchants shouted.
Workers carried crates.
Children ran through the streets.
The air smelled of spices, saltwater, and adventure.
Mr. Postman stepped ashore.
The moment his boots touched the ground, he noticed something unusual.
People were looking at him.
Not staring.
Watching.
Whispering.
A dock worker pointed.
A fisherman nudged his friend.
Two soldiers standing near a warehouse suddenly straightened.
Then one of them smiled.
“Mr. Postman?”
Mr. Postman looked surprised.
“Yes?”
The soldier grinned.
“We’ve heard all about you.”
“Have you?”
“Half the British Army has.”
Before Mr. Postman could respond, another voice called out.
“And the other half thinks the stories aren’t true.”
Laughter followed.
Within minutes several soldiers had gathered.
One shook his hand.
Another offered him tea.
A third wanted to know whether the story about the Highland storm was real.
Mr. Postman answered politely.
“Which one?”
The soldiers immediately exchanged nervous looks.
Apparently there had been more than one.
Word had travelled far ahead of him.
The British garrisons stationed across North Africa had been hearing stories for years.
Stories about a postman who could cross Britain during blizzards.
A postman who delivered letters to islands forgotten by maps.
A postman who once rerouted an entire railway timetable because a birthday card was running late.
The stories had grown with every telling.
By now, nobody knew which parts were true.
Mr. Postman himself certainly didn’t.
He had been too busy delivering letters.
An officer approached.
“Mr. Postman.”
“Good afternoon.”
“We’ve arranged transport to Cairo.”
“Splendid.”
“The mission is considered urgent.”
“Letters usually are.”
The officer smiled.
“Quite.”
Within the hour, Mr. Postman found himself travelling eastward.
The journey carried him through busy streets, past ancient buildings, and alongside the great river that had flowed through history for thousands of years.
By sunset, the skyline of Cairo stretched before him.
Mr. Postman stepped from the train station and looked around.
The city seemed endless.
People filled every street.
The noise never stopped.
The place felt alive.
Then a horn sounded nearby.
A safari jeep rolled around a corner.
It rattled.
It bounced.
It appeared to have survived several adventures already.
The driver leaned out.
“About time.”
Mr. Postman froze.
The voice sounded familiar.
Very familiar.
The driver removed his hat.
A broad grin appeared.
“You’re slower than I remember.”
For perhaps the first time in many years, Mr. Postman stood speechless.
“Arthur?”
The driver laughed.
“That’s me.”
Mr. Postman blinked twice.
Then three times.
“Arthur Jones?”
“The very same.”
“But you moved away years ago.”
“Twenty years ago.”
“I thought you became a railwayman.”
“I did.”
“What happened?”
Arthur shrugged.
“Got bored.”
The answer explained absolutely nothing.
Yet somehow it felt entirely believable.
The two old friends shook hands.
The sort of handshake shared by people who had once spent entire summers getting into trouble together.
“Well then,” said Arthur.
“You’ve certainly ended up somewhere unexpected.”
Mr. Postman nodded.
“So have you.”
Arthur grinned.
“You haven’t heard the half of it.”
The officer stepped forward.
“Gentlemen.”
Both turned.
The officer unfolded a map.
His expression immediately became serious.
“The expedition is here.”
He pointed far into the desert.
Arthur whistled.
“That’s a long drive.”
The officer nodded.
“Longer than you think.”
His finger traced the route.
“There are settlements.”
“Supply stations.”
“Military outposts.”
Then the line continued.
And continued.
And continued.
Until eventually it disappeared into a sea of sand.
The room became quiet.
Even Arthur stopped smiling.
The officer folded the map.
“The further you go, the fewer people you’ll find.”
“The fewer roads.”
“The fewer supplies.”
“The fewer chances to turn back.”
Mr. Postman looked at the map.
Then at his bag.
Then back at the map.
“Will there be somewhere to post replies?”
Arthur burst out laughing.
The officer stared in disbelief.
The question seemed ridiculous.
Yet somehow entirely appropriate.
Arthur climbed back into the jeep.
“Come on then.”
Mr. Postman climbed into the passenger seat.
The engine coughed.
Shuddered.
Then roared into life.
Arthur adjusted his goggles.
“Ready?”
Mr. Postman nodded.
The jeep pulled away from Cairo.
Behind them lay civilisation.
Ahead lay endless desert.
And somewhere beyond that desert sat hundreds of letters waiting for the one man stubborn enough to deliver them.

Final Chapter: The King’s Mail

For six days they had crossed the desert.
Six days of dust.
Six days of heat.
Six days of roads that were hardly roads at all.
The jeep no longer looked like a vehicle.
It looked like something the desert had attempted to bury.
Arthur looked much the same.
Only Mr. Postman appeared unchanged.
His uniform remained neat.
His hat remained perfectly straight.
And somehow his bag remained spotless.
Arthur had stopped asking questions about that several days earlier.
The sun was beginning to set when they reached the final ridge.
The last ridge.
The ridge that every guide, soldier and traveller had spoken about.
Beyond it lay the expedition.
Or at least that was the hope.
The jeep climbed slowly.
The engine groaned.
The wheels slipped.
Then finally they reached the summit.
Arthur switched off the engine.
Silence fell.
For a moment neither man spoke.
Then they looked down.
There it was.
A collection of buildings sat in the valley below.
Small.
Weathered.
Remote.
Almost swallowed by the desert itself.
The expedition.
After all the miles.
After all the setbacks.
After all the warnings.
They had found it.
Arthur laughed.
A long exhausted laugh.
“We actually did it.”
Mr. Postman adjusted his spectacles.
“I told you we would.”
“You never actually said that.”
“No.”
“Then why did I always feel like you had?”
Mr. Postman thought about it.
“I’m not sure.”
The jeep rolled into the camp as darkness began to fall.
Nobody noticed them at first.
A few workers looked up.
Then froze.
One scientist dropped a clipboard.
Another removed his glasses.
A third simply stared.
The jeep stopped.
Mr. Postman stepped out.
The camp remained silent.
A man finally approached.
His beard was grey.
His face was weathered by years beneath the desert sun.
“Who are you?”
Mr. Postman smiled.
“Royal Mail.”
The man blinked.
“Royal Mail?”
“Yes.”
The scientist looked at Arthur.
Then at the jeep.
Then back at Mr. Postman.
“You crossed all that desert…”
“Yes.”
“…to deliver letters?”
“Yes.”
The scientist stared.
For several seconds nobody spoke.
Then Mr. Postman opened his bag.
Hundreds of letters sat inside.
Letters from wives.
Letters from husbands.
Letters from sons.
Letters from daughters.
Birthday cards.
Christmas cards.
Photographs.
Drawings.
Messages from home.
The scientist’s eyes widened.
A young researcher stepped forward.
“My mother wrote to me six months ago.”
Another followed.
“I’ve got a little brother I’ve never met.”
A third spoke quietly.
“My daughter was born last year.”
The camp began gathering.
Slowly at first.
Then all at once.
Mr. Postman handed out letters.
One by one.
Name after name.
Face after face.
Some laughed.
Some cried.
Some sat down in silence.
One old scientist spent ten minutes staring at a photograph before saying a single word.
Arthur watched the scene unfold.
Neither he nor Mr. Postman spoke.
There was no need.
At last one envelope remained.
Just one.
The oldest letter in the bag.
The one that had travelled the furthest.
The one that had survived every storm, breakdown and delay.
Mr. Postman looked at the name.
Then looked around.
An elderly researcher stood near the edge of the crowd.
Quiet.
Almost forgotten.
Mr. Postman approached.
“I believe this is yours.”
The man took the envelope.
His hands trembled.
For a moment he simply looked at it.
Then he carefully broke the seal.
The camp fell silent once more.
The old researcher read.
Then read again.
A smile slowly appeared.
A smile unlike any Mr. Postman had seen during the entire journey.
The man folded the letter.
Looked toward the stars.
Then quietly laughed.
“What does it say?” someone asked.
The old researcher wiped his eyes.
“It’s from my sister.”
Nobody spoke.
“I haven’t seen her in twenty-three years.”
The desert wind drifted through the camp.
Soft now.
Gentle.
“She’s coming home.”
Nobody cheered.
Nobody applauded.
Some moments are too important for noise.
Arthur looked at Mr. Postman.
The Royal Postman stood quietly beneath the stars.
His mission complete.
Not because he had crossed a desert.
Not because the King had asked him.
Not because people would tell stories about it.
But because somewhere in the world, one family would soon be together again.
The old researcher walked over.
“You know…”
He looked at the letter.
Then back at Mr. Postman.
“I think this may be the most important thing anyone has ever delivered here.”
Mr. Postman smiled.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
The researcher frowned.
“You wouldn’t?”
“No.”
The old man looked confused.
“What could be more important?”
Mr. Postman glanced toward the growing pile of reply letters already forming beside the camp office.
Dozens of scientists had begun writing back immediately.
Letters to wives.
Letters to children.
Letters to friends.
Letters to home.
Mr. Postman smiled.
“Taking the replies back.”
Above them, the stars stretched from one horizon to the other.
And somewhere far away, across deserts and seas and mountains and railways, thousands of people were waiting for letters they did not yet know were coming.
The journey out had ended.
The journey home was about to begin.
And that, thought Mr. Postman, was the best part of the job.

Thank you for reading my book. It took me quite a bit to make this one because i mostly make stories that are 10 pages if your lucky, this one was 30. I want to give you what my influences were and my thank you’s