Trafford Publishing: A Midevil Tale

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A Midevil Tale

by Michael Rogers

257 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-1158; ISBN 1-4120-3331-4; US$24.95, C$32.00, EUR20.80, £14.41

Curl up with a good book in front of a fire and let yourself imagine a different time.

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about the book about the author excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

This is the story of the fortunes of a jester whose adventures span Europe and the Middle East.

About the Author

Michael Rogers was educated in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. He works at the Swope Art Museum.

Excerpts

Once upon a time, a court jester was traveling from the village of one king to the royal house of Hanover. He traveled for days and days, through forest and glen, over rivers and lakes. Nights, he spent in the company of townsfolk, who had an extra space for him to lay his head for in the dark times, strangers were welcome in the beds of town folk. Fearsome things were said to roam the night.
The jester was in his sixth day of travel, still many, many miles from the house of Hanover, when he stopped to get water to quench his thirst along the river Ogg. A well, complete with bucket and ladle, sat unattended in the shade of the great oak trees. He was mighty thirsty. As he regained his head, as the water refreshed him, he began to notice that he was not exactly alone in this place. At first, it seemed as though it was merely the water of the river, gurgling across the rocks nearby that made the very air seem to giggle. Then little flashes of light, just along his periphery had him wondering if perhaps the water was poisoned. He turned quickly then, and caught the vision dead with both eyes. A woman, no more than twenty, long flowing golden hair, all adorned in a white frock, made of the mists, or so it seemed, stood just beyond the growth of shrubbery behind the trees. She was smiling and her eyes seemed to lift his feet from the ground.
He said, "Woman, how are you?"
She giggled, then was gone as if she was never there. He gathered his wits about himself, and decided to continue onward. He gathered up the reins of his horse, and set off on foot in the direction he was headed, up into the hills, away from the river. The road to Hanover was notorious for vagabonds and thieves. It was through a primeval forest, mountains and vales old as time itself. Wayfarer inns dotted the map, though even the map was old and things, as they do over time, changed.
The jester managed to put some miles behind him. He got lost about sunset, unaware of the time. The tree canopy had grown so thick over the centuries that everything on the forest floor appeared to be in the light of dusk most of the time. The off in the not quite distant sounds in the forest continued to keep both travelers, the man and his horse edgy. At times, it seemed they were being followed, even hunted. Just as quickly as such thoughts occurred, they would be dismissed by the flutter of wings or the scampering of a small furry creature from the direction of the noise.
Then, an inn appeared, just beyond a deadfall, along the road ahead. Lights burned in the windows. The jester decided it was time to rest for the night. He dismounted his steed, and approached the door of the inn. The door stood open. A welcome mat was laid on the stoop.
The jester asked, "Hello?"
A voice from within, a deep male voice, said, "Come in here with ye and make yourself a seat!"
The jester entered. His eyes adjusting to the brightness of the room. It had been lately painted certainly, for the walls were egg shell white and it seemed to glow. A fire blazed in a huge ancient fireplace, copper kettles hanging around it on stands, all ready for the pivoting above a fire for cooking. Still, to his eye, there was no man, woman, or child in this place. Perhaps the old man had climbed the very steep stairs in the corner as he spoke.
A creaking noise, very loud, came suddenly from behind him to the left. He quickly glanced in its direction and saw a trap door swinging upward. An old white haired gent was pushing his way up through the floor. His right hand brought up a large cask and set it on the floor before he resumed his entrance.
The old man said, "I be Crog, the innkeeper. I see the hour draws late, and as you are my boarder from the night, lad, I felt it right to pull a cask of me finest. It will do supper and the story telling well, I wager."
The jester said, "I am Ansel of Avon, a jester by trade. I am traveling to the house of Hanover for a performance for the king."
The old man said, "Good employment is hard to come by.... I hope you like beef, I am making a roast as we speak."
Ansel said, "Aye, beef sounds wonderful. I saw you have a shelter outside, may I put my horse in it?"
Crog said, "Sure matey. Be sure and shut the door tight once your horse is inside. We have wolves in this neck of the woods. There will be hay and straw in the shelter, too."
Ansel left the inn and gathered up his horse. He led the beast to the shed and got him bedded down for the night. He then returned to the inn.
Crog had set the table. There was, of course, the roast beef and there was cooked vegetables, potatoes, squash, and for dessert, a wonderful Bavarian torte. Crog said he had been in the inn business for many a season and had expanded his cooking through the help of travelers from far and wide. Sometimes, he said, his customers would get to liking the place so much they would schedule their travels to include overnight stays with him over and over again. He even grew some of their unique favorite vegetables in his garden so they would find a little bit of home out here in the woods.
They ate for it seemed like hours, talking about business and travels. Crog had not always been an innkeeper. At one time, he was a sailor and had traveled the seven seas, he said. He had seen Rome and Borneo, been shipwrecked in the Fiji islands and had ridden ponies in Mongolia. Ansel was impressed with his host. Ansel told him about the wood nymph he had seen at the well. Crog was suddenly very curious, in a guarded way, as if Ansel had said something like "I know your secret." Crog said, after the tale was told, that there are stories of such things in the wood. He said Ansel should feel himself blessed as had he actually engaged the woman in conversation he would be out there still, wandering around in madness, to be shunned and feared by his fellow travelers on sight forever hence. He said, this would lead Ansel to a slow death of starvation and a broken heart.
Crog then said that a traveling Chinese magician, named Chan, was scheduled to arrive within a fortnight, making his way back to Cathay. He hoped to entertain the magician with tales of mystical happenings in the woods, stories to delight, not frighten. He said he had been growing the ginseng root given him by the magician on his earlier trip, and that the magician promised to explain the uses of this magical root when he returned.
Dinner over, Crog cleared the table, asking that Ansel only take a seat near the hearth, after selecting a mug from the mantel, for, of course, some of that liquid in the cask. Ansel, merry from the feast and the good conversation, was more than happy to oblige.
Soon Crog returned with a glass decanter filled with a brandy unlike anything Ansel had ever tasted. Smooth, sweet, warming, and none to boastful, it did not seem as if more was needed, but was certainly welcome. The telling of tales continued, each taking turns in the bargain. Ansel bore the secrets of the royal houses of Europe, Crog, the common man perspective on the world, far and wide.

Catalogue Information