Cursed |
Issue 7
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“I give up!” he declared, throwing his books into his locker and slamming the thin, metal door closed with such a loud clank that all the 6th graders in the vicinity flinched at the out-burst.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Jason! What’s the matter?” Brad asked, concerned. Jason sighed, exasperated, and let his forehead fall against the red metal locker door, again, with enough noise as to send every 6th grader in the halls scurrying quickly and quietly away from the two 8th grade jocks and their problems. “For all of last year, and all of this year, Brittany…” “Brittany Daniels? From Mrs. Roper’s class?” Brad interrupted. “Yes, Brad. Duh! You think I’d be thinking about Brittany Luna from PE? She’s in the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Obviously, Brittany Daniels!” Jason told him. “Oh,” said Brad. “Anyways,” Jason started, “you know how she was always, like, asking me for help with stuff, and, like, asking me to pass Jennifer Greene notes for her- who was, like, only, one seat away- all the time, and stuff?” “Yeah,” said Brad. “Anyways,” Jason started, “so I asked her to the Halloween Dance, and she said she’s, like, Mormon, and her parents think Halloween is ‘a day for the Devil’ or something. So, like, anyways, she turned me down, dude!” Jason cried. “That sucks,” said Brad. “Yeah, man,” Jason said, “I’m totally giving up. Nothing ever works out for me. I think I’m, like, cursed!” Brad shook his head and said to Jason, “Cursed? What do you mean ‘cursed’? You mean like… |
DAVID NANCE
is a fiction writer, navy veteran, former ESL teacher, husband and father. |
“Five hundred years ago, there was a sleepy hamlet on a once well-traveled, Old Roman road that ran between Marseille and Tuscany, with a few shops, houses, and an inn. For centuries the forest slowly encroached upon the road until, eventually, great boughs arched across from both sides, creating a green canopy overhead. As the forest got older, the roots began to create bumps and cracks in the stonework where grass grew up and out into the dim light.
Travelers would hesitate before turning down the dark and lonely road, so the Dancing Dog Inn was not very busy nor prosperous, and the tiny hamlet around it turned stagnant in commerce and activity. A young man named Simon worked at the Dog, assisting the blacksmith and doing odd chores. He served as farrier, pounding out horseshoes and nails. He made thin metal bands that were nailed to wooden planks to form buckets. He repaired broken wheels on carts and carriages. And in the small hours he was free to pursue his pleasure, Simon played the lute and sang and prayed to the stars to brighten his life with a beauty to love.
The Moon was a tiny sliver of ice in a cloudless sky the night Simon knew his prayers were finally answered, for, as he strummed his lute he sang:
‘O Angels, will you send me a maiden both lovely and fair?
Please, Angels, won’t you hear me, and grant my lonely heart’s prayer? ’
And at that moment, a warm breeze blew from some dark place down the quiet road, rustling leaves, and stirring the air. Above the trees a star fell straight down, and appeared to settle at a distant point in the middle of the road. A final note of Simon’s song still hung in the air when it was replaced by a faint clatter and rumble. Almost holding his breath in anticipation, he stared at the darkest spot in the tunnel of trees over the Old Roman road until the dark spot became lighter.
In disbelief, Simon rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and whispered, ‘Could it be? ’
As if God struck a match, the light spot in the darkness blazed into bright white. And all at once Simon saw clearly a snowy pair of stallions drawing a fine, white carriage. The gait and pace of the horses was clumsy and odd. From the moment they came into view, until the moment the carriage rounded into the driveway of the Dancing Dog Inn was painfully slow. All that while Simon’s curiosity raged. His heart fluttered, his ears burned, and his hair stood up on his neck.
The sleepy hamlet was immediately awoken by the noisy clank and clatter of iron hooves and wooden wheels bouncing on cobbled stones. The innkeeper, Mr. Brown appeared first in the yard, with an iron-wrought lantern with blue and gold glass. The coachman reined in the white stallions with a booming ‘Whoa!’ that brought many and more villagers, shopkeeps and other curious parties out into the once-quiet night. The murmur rose and spread from house to house, shop to shop. They all wanted to know who had come into town so late and unannounced.
‘Good evening,’ Mr. Brown called up to the coachman, who only nodded a greeting in return. Mr. Brown waited for more of a reply, and after an uncomfortable length of silence, cleared his throat and made to speak again. Before a sound could escape his lips, the carriage door burst open and a man of great stature, wearing a dark cape and robe, descended from the carriage and approached Mr. Brown in three long strides. With no mention or glance to any of the many others milling at the edges of the Dancing Dog Inn’s yard, the stranger said:
‘Good sir, I am but a humble merchant in need of two modest rooms for this night, and perhaps one night more.’
Murmurs continued, and Mr. Brown gulped. It was evident by the stately appearance of the two white horses, the gilded adornment that fringed the fine carriage, and the regal bearing of the stranger, that he was not merely a humble merchant. But Mr. Brown did not address these inconsistent points in the stranger’s deception. Instead, he obliged himself to meet one dishonest remark with another:
‘You are welcome, stranger, to room and board. I am Mr. Brown, proprietor of the Dancing Dog. Unfortunately, in this busy season, all of our basic rooms have been let out, and only the fourth floor’s apartment which is usually reserved for members of royalty is all that is available at this time.’
Murmurs continued, and Mr. Brown gulped once again, in the longer than necessary pause, as the tall, wealthy-looking stranger surveyed what appeared to him to be every yokel in town, staring at their conversation, as if they had not seen a traveler in their lives.
Simon slowly pushed his way through the throng, and came to stand a few paces behind his master, the innkeeper, who was nervously jiggling his lantern, causing bluish-green shadows to dance across the stranger’s face, changing the perception of his expression from anger to elation, and back again to anger every second.
At last, he rolled his head back and bellowed a thunderous laugh, ‘AH HA HA HA,’ he roared. Very well, very well, good sir.’ And turning back to the carriage he spoke but one more word. It was a word that no one in the sleepy, little hamlet had ever heard before, but instantly was beheld as magic, for only a few seconds after the stranger had spoken it, a tiny and beautiful angel appeared at the door of the carriage, bathed in starlight, stilling the jiggling lantern, and hushing the murmuring townsfolk, until the only sounds that could be heard were the snorts of the two white stallions, and the crickets chirping by the gently flowing brook in the forest.
The stranger clapped his hands loudly, and strode up beside the angel.
‘Ah, yes,’ he began, ‘this is my lovely daughter,’ and the noble stranger spoke the magical word again. Like hearing the voice of God, Simon only registered some sweet lullaby of a word that he couldn’t begin to pronounce, nor imagine clumsy letters forming.
‘I trust,’ the stranger continued, ‘these,’ clearing his throat, ‘royal apartments have bedding for two, and allow for the privacy befit a young lady from her father.’
‘Oh, yes, m’lord,’ Mr. Brown said. ‘The apartments are two adjoining bedchambers which share a hearth, separated by a den- most comfortably furnished- and a master suite, which shares the hearth of the den. I’m confident you will be most com…’
‘Quite right. Quite all right, Master Brown,’ the stranger interrupted. ‘Please have your servant fetch the chest in rear of mine coach, and deliver it to our rooms, as well as sending up as much hot water as will fill two baths.’
‘Uhm,’ Mr. Brown choked, ‘I’m quite sorry to report the apartment’s bathtubs…had to be…sent out for repair. However, we do have lovely bronze basins in….’
‘Quite all right. Quite all right, good Master Brown. Just bring the luggage and water posthaste. I’m weary from the road, and seek only to rest now. And please oblige mine coachman with his requests, if you would. Now we shall retire. Floor four, you say?’ asked the stranger.
‘Yes, m’lord, yes. Right this way,’ Mr. Brown said, leading the stranger and his daughter down the cracked cobblestone path to the Dancing Dog. ‘Please watch your steps in the night, m’lord, m’lady,’ Mr. Brown said, stumbling, himself, as he went along. ‘Simon, grab the chest for his lordship, and bring it upstairs,’ he called over one shoulder.
Simon blinked once or twice to tear himself away from the angelic daughter of the late-night visitor, and ran to the back of the carriage. He found, to his delight, one simple, wooden chest with brass handles, of a size that- had it been filled with stone- Simon could have managed easily on this night, for he was imbued with power after seeing the nobleman’s daughter, and was hard and lean besides from his smithwork. Simon hoisted the chest with ease, and began to follow, when the coachman stepped directly in his path. The coachman was tall and dark- his skin bronzed or darker- his eyes, black in the night- cloaked, with a tall, pointy hat on his head.
‘Where is your smithy, boy?’ he asked Simon.
‘Beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Smith was in his cups this eve. I’ve not seen him. I’m his apprentice. Could I be of some service?’ Simon informed and queried.
‘This right, rear wheel must have a broken spoke or two. It’s been giving the horses a hell of a time down this ancient road,’ the coachman complained.
‘I’ll gladly see to the horses tonight, and fix the wheel first thing tomorrow, sir. If you’ll excuse me,’ Simon excused himself, and still carrying the stranger’s wooden chest, ran to catch up with Mr. Brown, the stranger, and his daughter. Nonetheless, when Simon arrived on the fourth floor, he found he was too late. He left the chest in the parlor, and closed the door, saddened that he would not see the beauty again until tomorrow, if he was fortunate.
Mrs. Brown, the innkeeper’s wife, was up before dawn. She woke Simon not long afterward, and dispatched him to the well with two big, wooden buckets that he, himself had crafted. When he returned, Mrs. Brown sent him to Mr. Miller, the miller, for flour. Mr. Miller was not yet awake, but everyone in town knew and trusted Simon. It was not unusual for him to fill out his own order. He filled a large, cloth sack with fine, white, fluffy flour, weighed it, and left a note on Mr. Miller’s countertop.
-Mr. Miller,
12 pounds flour. Charge the Dog.
-Simon
As soon as Simon returned to the Inn with the flour, Mrs. Brown asked him to fetch a bucket of milk. The inn had small stables adjoining the main building. Ike, an old, retired plow horse with a slumped back was usually the only horse. It was only after Simon entered the dark, musky stable with a lantern that he remembered the two white stallions. Upon seeing them, the whole night came rushing back. The light startled old Ike, and he awoke and whinnied, and kicked his stall door. Greater snorts and stomping immediately drowned out the old plow horse’s morning grumbles, and Simon turned to gaze upon the two beasts that had pulled in the carriage of the presumably noble stranger, and his heavenly daughter.
Their legs were thick like young, white trees, with huge tufts of shaggy fur at their feet. The two horses were of a height, and their backs were level with Simon’s eyes. Their own strange, dark eyes were looking down at him from turned heads, bobbing up and down, slowly. Simon walked past them quickly to the last stall where Natalie, the milk cow, waited to be milked.
As Simon plopped the full milk bucket down beside the stove, waiting for Mrs. Brown’s next command, he thought about that magical word the stranger had spoken, and attached it to the image of the beautiful girl in his mind. Simon tried to recall every detail of her appearance. The way the lantern light cast a changing rainbow of color across them suggested to Simon that her hair must be as bright as gold, and her face as white as lamb’s wool. Her garments were dark in the night, but not as dark as the tall stranger’s.
‘Simon!’ Mrs. Brown called, loudly, and for the third time, before the spell was broken, and Simon’s daydream shifted back to reality. ‘Run down to the butcher, and bring me back a fatted side of bacon. M’lord shall have gravy with his biscuits when he awakens.’
Without a word, Simon bolted out of the kitchen door, bounded down the crumbling cobbled stone road, and knocked on the butcher’s shop door before pushing it open, and stepping inside. Mr. Red, the butcher, was already awake, and up to his elbows in blood and muck, as he pulled linked sausages from a hand-cranked machine.
‘Simon, m’lad,’ he greeted Simon, ‘What can I do for you this morning?’
‘Mrs. Brown needs a fatted side of bacon for the stranger’s breakfast,’ he declared.
Mr. Red produced a paper-wrapped package from behind the bar. ‘I have prepared this select cut already. There will be no charge to the Dog, so long as you inform his lordship that this meat was gifted to him by Red’s Butcher. I hope he may come and purchase some food for his journey.’
Mr. Red was the only butcher in town, so winning the wealthy stranger’s business was not like to be a great challenge, unless, of course he was unaware that the shop existed, or didn’t know what name to inquire after. At any rate, Mr. Red was not willing to miss a chance to earn some coin for his place of work, whereas, more often than not, the townsfolk tended to barter services for products and vice versa.
With bacon in hand, Simon hurried back to the Dancing Dog Inn. He wanted nothing more than this noble stranger to be satisfied when he awoke, but then he realized that may be a problem.
You see, Simon had been orphaned at the Dancing Dog as a babe. It was through years of toil, uncomplaining that he earned the admiration and respect of the townsfolk. He took pride in his work, and he enjoyed the reputation of being honest and dutiful and good. As he walked back to the Dancing Dog Inn, carrying the bloody bacon wrapped in paper, Simon found it was difficult to swallow. He was choking on guilt. He knew he was fully capable of mending the broken wheel on the stranger’s gilded carriage, but, at the same time, he knew once that task was completed, the nobleman would leave town forever, and take his beautiful daughter with him. Simon, with the day’s chores set out before him, would have little, if any time, to even be in her sweet, stunning presence.
Without a word, he dropped the bacon onto Mrs. Brown’s kitchen counter with a slap, and sat himself on an upturned bucket by the stove, where he often sat idle, resting between errands and chores. He sat and sighed and felt a swirling in his mind- doubt and fear and worry. And then, like the dawn, an idea was in his mind. A fool-proof plan that would award him more than a day or two of extra time with the nobleman’s daughter. He had simply to sabotage the gilded carriage, and then the nobleman couldn’t travel. If the wheel were to break, or better yet, come free from the axel while the carriage was rolling along the bumpy road, it could cause any number of defects that might be much more time-consuming to repair. Of course, the nobleman would be angry at first, but he might be eventually won over by the hospitality of their little town. And his lovely daughter, seeing that Simon was the only other person of an age with herself, would find in him an obvious choice of companion.
They’d stroll through the old forest, down by the stream, to the secluded bank where Simon dreamed and sang. He would sing again, and play the lute and pray every night, and work every day until the noble stranger’s daughter saw that he was worthy, and she would fall in love with him. He had worked all his life, receiving little praise or thanks, and earning no earthly reward. Maybe this was his time. This was his chance. All he had to do was take it.
Simon ran to the stables and brought Ike to the carriage, and hitched the old plow horse in place of the two white stallions. It took two apples and a bitten thumb to entice the old horse to pull the gilded carriage even the short distance to the smithy behind the Dancing Dog Inn. But Ike finally did his job. Simon got to work in the early hours that morning. The sun had hardly cleared the treetops before Simon had removed the wheel, fixed the spokes, and reattached it well enough to function, but not so well that it would hold for long.
His best guess was that the stranger would make it no more than a mile out of town, because the road begins to get steep and bumpier as it climbs the hills heading west outside of town. He would simply come along later in the afternoon, under the guise of fishing upstream from town. There he would stumble across the forsaken carriage, and prove himself a hero.
His duty done, deceitful though it was, Simon felt relieved. No one would suspect he had anything to do with the little accident. It would merely be misfortune for the nobleman. Secretly, every single business person in town would be delighted. Obviously the stranger had refined tastes, and would spend coin to be satisfied, to the benefit of all. It was fool-proof.
Simon went back to his quarters, a small shed built alongside the smithy, and cleaned himself up. He changed his clothes and donned a clean, simple, white, cotton shirt with a wide open collar; simple, black breeches, black stockings and black leather shoes. As prepared as he could possibly be, he walked back to the Dancing Dog Inn, hoping to catch the visitors at breakfast, and relay the good news: that the carriage would be ready to depart whenever his lordship wished it, and to offer his services, should anything more be required. While there, he would demonstrate his good manners; display his confident way of speaking; and reveal his masculine bearing to the nobleman’s beautiful daughter.
As Fate would have it, the nobleman was already finished with breakfast, and ascending the second flight of stairs back to the fourth floor apartments. Each step sighed and creaked under his weight, growing fainter and more faint, until Simon could no longer hear him.
‘Boy!’ the call of the coachman broke the spell, and Simon jerked at the sound. The large, bronzed coachman was seated at a table with three empty chairs and two empty plates. Steam was still rising from a half-empty silver mug, beside a crumb-strewn plate.
Simon approached the coachman with a smile. It wasn’t exactly according to plan, but he could still be pleasant.
‘When may I tell my master to expect his carriage to be ready?’ the coachman asked.
‘I finished as the sun rose this morn,’ Simon reported with a smile of satisfaction. Just then, Simon happened to glance up at the stairs, and there beheld the beautiful daughter of the nobleman. It was as if they were the only two people in the world. Their eyes locked. A faint smile danced playfully across the rose petals of her lips. Her golden curls bounced with each step, as the girl drifted down the stairs.
‘Boy!’ the booming voice of the coachman broke the spell again. Simon jerked his head towards the sound. ‘That will be all. Now take these plates away.’
Simon collected the plates, and as he turned to face the kitchen, he found himself eye to eye with the beautiful stranger’s daughter. ‘He-he-hello,’ he squeaked.
‘Just fresh milk, and a soft-boiled egg, please,’ was all she said.
The coachman rose from his seat and pulled a chair out for her. ‘By the window,’ she told him, and he complied.
Flustered and blushing, Simon scurried away to the kitchen, damning himself for not living up to his own expectations. He asked himself why and wondered when, or if, he would get another chance to speak with the beautiful girl again.
Lingering, sweeping, in the corner, creeping, Simon slowly faced the fact that he simply knew not when to act. A few hours past, and then at last, the nobleman emerged from his rooms and announced:
‘Mr. Brown, I must say: we appreciate your hospitality. And, now, if it’s not too much to ask, could you please have someone fetch my luggage and deliver it to mine coach?’
Simon, at first dismayed, remembered all hope was not lost. He would just need to grab his fishing gear, and head west along the road, where in but a few moments’ time, he would assuredly come upon the disabled carriage of the nobleman and his daughter fair. That would be his time to shine. That would be his golden opportunity.
Alas, somehow something had not gone accordingly. Simon walked and walked. A mile, two, more. Nothing. No sign of the carriage. He was pondering this unexpected result, repeating his actions in his mind, in an attempt to calculate an explanation for his miscalculation. As he walked and wondered, Simon topped a great, sloping hill some miles west of his little burg. Back to the east lay the valley from whence he came, and the height allowed for a commanding view of nigh 360 degrees. So Simon paused, and looked without knowing what to look for.
And then, at the edge of the road, on the steep part of the hill, Simon beheld a broken wheel. His heart sank, ceased to beat, and he could scarcely move his feet. He forced himself closer to the wheel, to the edge. Hoping not, breathing not. Before he closed the distance, Simon saw the glimmer from the brass wheel flicker in the setting sunlight, and wonder left his mind, and was replaced by confoundedness.
‘Where?’ was all he asked.
Taking one last step toward the wheel, before finally reaching the edge of the road, looking over, looking down, Simon saw what he had caused. A hero, not, nor a lover. Simon was a two horse, two man, and an angel killer.
“So, like, realizing that, dude knows he doesn’t deserve love. And probably no one in his bloodline would ever find true love either. You mean like that kind of curse?” Brad asked.
“Jeez, no. Hell, no!” Jason exclaimed. “I just meant, like, I really like Brittany Daniels, and I want her to like me back.”
“What about Brandy Holland?” Brad asked. “She’s not Mormon.”
“Oh, yeah!” Jason replied. “She is smoking hot!”
Travelers would hesitate before turning down the dark and lonely road, so the Dancing Dog Inn was not very busy nor prosperous, and the tiny hamlet around it turned stagnant in commerce and activity. A young man named Simon worked at the Dog, assisting the blacksmith and doing odd chores. He served as farrier, pounding out horseshoes and nails. He made thin metal bands that were nailed to wooden planks to form buckets. He repaired broken wheels on carts and carriages. And in the small hours he was free to pursue his pleasure, Simon played the lute and sang and prayed to the stars to brighten his life with a beauty to love.
The Moon was a tiny sliver of ice in a cloudless sky the night Simon knew his prayers were finally answered, for, as he strummed his lute he sang:
‘O Angels, will you send me a maiden both lovely and fair?
Please, Angels, won’t you hear me, and grant my lonely heart’s prayer? ’
And at that moment, a warm breeze blew from some dark place down the quiet road, rustling leaves, and stirring the air. Above the trees a star fell straight down, and appeared to settle at a distant point in the middle of the road. A final note of Simon’s song still hung in the air when it was replaced by a faint clatter and rumble. Almost holding his breath in anticipation, he stared at the darkest spot in the tunnel of trees over the Old Roman road until the dark spot became lighter.
In disbelief, Simon rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and whispered, ‘Could it be? ’
As if God struck a match, the light spot in the darkness blazed into bright white. And all at once Simon saw clearly a snowy pair of stallions drawing a fine, white carriage. The gait and pace of the horses was clumsy and odd. From the moment they came into view, until the moment the carriage rounded into the driveway of the Dancing Dog Inn was painfully slow. All that while Simon’s curiosity raged. His heart fluttered, his ears burned, and his hair stood up on his neck.
The sleepy hamlet was immediately awoken by the noisy clank and clatter of iron hooves and wooden wheels bouncing on cobbled stones. The innkeeper, Mr. Brown appeared first in the yard, with an iron-wrought lantern with blue and gold glass. The coachman reined in the white stallions with a booming ‘Whoa!’ that brought many and more villagers, shopkeeps and other curious parties out into the once-quiet night. The murmur rose and spread from house to house, shop to shop. They all wanted to know who had come into town so late and unannounced.
‘Good evening,’ Mr. Brown called up to the coachman, who only nodded a greeting in return. Mr. Brown waited for more of a reply, and after an uncomfortable length of silence, cleared his throat and made to speak again. Before a sound could escape his lips, the carriage door burst open and a man of great stature, wearing a dark cape and robe, descended from the carriage and approached Mr. Brown in three long strides. With no mention or glance to any of the many others milling at the edges of the Dancing Dog Inn’s yard, the stranger said:
‘Good sir, I am but a humble merchant in need of two modest rooms for this night, and perhaps one night more.’
Murmurs continued, and Mr. Brown gulped. It was evident by the stately appearance of the two white horses, the gilded adornment that fringed the fine carriage, and the regal bearing of the stranger, that he was not merely a humble merchant. But Mr. Brown did not address these inconsistent points in the stranger’s deception. Instead, he obliged himself to meet one dishonest remark with another:
‘You are welcome, stranger, to room and board. I am Mr. Brown, proprietor of the Dancing Dog. Unfortunately, in this busy season, all of our basic rooms have been let out, and only the fourth floor’s apartment which is usually reserved for members of royalty is all that is available at this time.’
Murmurs continued, and Mr. Brown gulped once again, in the longer than necessary pause, as the tall, wealthy-looking stranger surveyed what appeared to him to be every yokel in town, staring at their conversation, as if they had not seen a traveler in their lives.
Simon slowly pushed his way through the throng, and came to stand a few paces behind his master, the innkeeper, who was nervously jiggling his lantern, causing bluish-green shadows to dance across the stranger’s face, changing the perception of his expression from anger to elation, and back again to anger every second.
At last, he rolled his head back and bellowed a thunderous laugh, ‘AH HA HA HA,’ he roared. Very well, very well, good sir.’ And turning back to the carriage he spoke but one more word. It was a word that no one in the sleepy, little hamlet had ever heard before, but instantly was beheld as magic, for only a few seconds after the stranger had spoken it, a tiny and beautiful angel appeared at the door of the carriage, bathed in starlight, stilling the jiggling lantern, and hushing the murmuring townsfolk, until the only sounds that could be heard were the snorts of the two white stallions, and the crickets chirping by the gently flowing brook in the forest.
The stranger clapped his hands loudly, and strode up beside the angel.
‘Ah, yes,’ he began, ‘this is my lovely daughter,’ and the noble stranger spoke the magical word again. Like hearing the voice of God, Simon only registered some sweet lullaby of a word that he couldn’t begin to pronounce, nor imagine clumsy letters forming.
‘I trust,’ the stranger continued, ‘these,’ clearing his throat, ‘royal apartments have bedding for two, and allow for the privacy befit a young lady from her father.’
‘Oh, yes, m’lord,’ Mr. Brown said. ‘The apartments are two adjoining bedchambers which share a hearth, separated by a den- most comfortably furnished- and a master suite, which shares the hearth of the den. I’m confident you will be most com…’
‘Quite right. Quite all right, Master Brown,’ the stranger interrupted. ‘Please have your servant fetch the chest in rear of mine coach, and deliver it to our rooms, as well as sending up as much hot water as will fill two baths.’
‘Uhm,’ Mr. Brown choked, ‘I’m quite sorry to report the apartment’s bathtubs…had to be…sent out for repair. However, we do have lovely bronze basins in….’
‘Quite all right. Quite all right, good Master Brown. Just bring the luggage and water posthaste. I’m weary from the road, and seek only to rest now. And please oblige mine coachman with his requests, if you would. Now we shall retire. Floor four, you say?’ asked the stranger.
‘Yes, m’lord, yes. Right this way,’ Mr. Brown said, leading the stranger and his daughter down the cracked cobblestone path to the Dancing Dog. ‘Please watch your steps in the night, m’lord, m’lady,’ Mr. Brown said, stumbling, himself, as he went along. ‘Simon, grab the chest for his lordship, and bring it upstairs,’ he called over one shoulder.
Simon blinked once or twice to tear himself away from the angelic daughter of the late-night visitor, and ran to the back of the carriage. He found, to his delight, one simple, wooden chest with brass handles, of a size that- had it been filled with stone- Simon could have managed easily on this night, for he was imbued with power after seeing the nobleman’s daughter, and was hard and lean besides from his smithwork. Simon hoisted the chest with ease, and began to follow, when the coachman stepped directly in his path. The coachman was tall and dark- his skin bronzed or darker- his eyes, black in the night- cloaked, with a tall, pointy hat on his head.
‘Where is your smithy, boy?’ he asked Simon.
‘Beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Smith was in his cups this eve. I’ve not seen him. I’m his apprentice. Could I be of some service?’ Simon informed and queried.
‘This right, rear wheel must have a broken spoke or two. It’s been giving the horses a hell of a time down this ancient road,’ the coachman complained.
‘I’ll gladly see to the horses tonight, and fix the wheel first thing tomorrow, sir. If you’ll excuse me,’ Simon excused himself, and still carrying the stranger’s wooden chest, ran to catch up with Mr. Brown, the stranger, and his daughter. Nonetheless, when Simon arrived on the fourth floor, he found he was too late. He left the chest in the parlor, and closed the door, saddened that he would not see the beauty again until tomorrow, if he was fortunate.
Mrs. Brown, the innkeeper’s wife, was up before dawn. She woke Simon not long afterward, and dispatched him to the well with two big, wooden buckets that he, himself had crafted. When he returned, Mrs. Brown sent him to Mr. Miller, the miller, for flour. Mr. Miller was not yet awake, but everyone in town knew and trusted Simon. It was not unusual for him to fill out his own order. He filled a large, cloth sack with fine, white, fluffy flour, weighed it, and left a note on Mr. Miller’s countertop.
-Mr. Miller,
12 pounds flour. Charge the Dog.
-Simon
As soon as Simon returned to the Inn with the flour, Mrs. Brown asked him to fetch a bucket of milk. The inn had small stables adjoining the main building. Ike, an old, retired plow horse with a slumped back was usually the only horse. It was only after Simon entered the dark, musky stable with a lantern that he remembered the two white stallions. Upon seeing them, the whole night came rushing back. The light startled old Ike, and he awoke and whinnied, and kicked his stall door. Greater snorts and stomping immediately drowned out the old plow horse’s morning grumbles, and Simon turned to gaze upon the two beasts that had pulled in the carriage of the presumably noble stranger, and his heavenly daughter.
Their legs were thick like young, white trees, with huge tufts of shaggy fur at their feet. The two horses were of a height, and their backs were level with Simon’s eyes. Their own strange, dark eyes were looking down at him from turned heads, bobbing up and down, slowly. Simon walked past them quickly to the last stall where Natalie, the milk cow, waited to be milked.
As Simon plopped the full milk bucket down beside the stove, waiting for Mrs. Brown’s next command, he thought about that magical word the stranger had spoken, and attached it to the image of the beautiful girl in his mind. Simon tried to recall every detail of her appearance. The way the lantern light cast a changing rainbow of color across them suggested to Simon that her hair must be as bright as gold, and her face as white as lamb’s wool. Her garments were dark in the night, but not as dark as the tall stranger’s.
‘Simon!’ Mrs. Brown called, loudly, and for the third time, before the spell was broken, and Simon’s daydream shifted back to reality. ‘Run down to the butcher, and bring me back a fatted side of bacon. M’lord shall have gravy with his biscuits when he awakens.’
Without a word, Simon bolted out of the kitchen door, bounded down the crumbling cobbled stone road, and knocked on the butcher’s shop door before pushing it open, and stepping inside. Mr. Red, the butcher, was already awake, and up to his elbows in blood and muck, as he pulled linked sausages from a hand-cranked machine.
‘Simon, m’lad,’ he greeted Simon, ‘What can I do for you this morning?’
‘Mrs. Brown needs a fatted side of bacon for the stranger’s breakfast,’ he declared.
Mr. Red produced a paper-wrapped package from behind the bar. ‘I have prepared this select cut already. There will be no charge to the Dog, so long as you inform his lordship that this meat was gifted to him by Red’s Butcher. I hope he may come and purchase some food for his journey.’
Mr. Red was the only butcher in town, so winning the wealthy stranger’s business was not like to be a great challenge, unless, of course he was unaware that the shop existed, or didn’t know what name to inquire after. At any rate, Mr. Red was not willing to miss a chance to earn some coin for his place of work, whereas, more often than not, the townsfolk tended to barter services for products and vice versa.
With bacon in hand, Simon hurried back to the Dancing Dog Inn. He wanted nothing more than this noble stranger to be satisfied when he awoke, but then he realized that may be a problem.
You see, Simon had been orphaned at the Dancing Dog as a babe. It was through years of toil, uncomplaining that he earned the admiration and respect of the townsfolk. He took pride in his work, and he enjoyed the reputation of being honest and dutiful and good. As he walked back to the Dancing Dog Inn, carrying the bloody bacon wrapped in paper, Simon found it was difficult to swallow. He was choking on guilt. He knew he was fully capable of mending the broken wheel on the stranger’s gilded carriage, but, at the same time, he knew once that task was completed, the nobleman would leave town forever, and take his beautiful daughter with him. Simon, with the day’s chores set out before him, would have little, if any time, to even be in her sweet, stunning presence.
Without a word, he dropped the bacon onto Mrs. Brown’s kitchen counter with a slap, and sat himself on an upturned bucket by the stove, where he often sat idle, resting between errands and chores. He sat and sighed and felt a swirling in his mind- doubt and fear and worry. And then, like the dawn, an idea was in his mind. A fool-proof plan that would award him more than a day or two of extra time with the nobleman’s daughter. He had simply to sabotage the gilded carriage, and then the nobleman couldn’t travel. If the wheel were to break, or better yet, come free from the axel while the carriage was rolling along the bumpy road, it could cause any number of defects that might be much more time-consuming to repair. Of course, the nobleman would be angry at first, but he might be eventually won over by the hospitality of their little town. And his lovely daughter, seeing that Simon was the only other person of an age with herself, would find in him an obvious choice of companion.
They’d stroll through the old forest, down by the stream, to the secluded bank where Simon dreamed and sang. He would sing again, and play the lute and pray every night, and work every day until the noble stranger’s daughter saw that he was worthy, and she would fall in love with him. He had worked all his life, receiving little praise or thanks, and earning no earthly reward. Maybe this was his time. This was his chance. All he had to do was take it.
Simon ran to the stables and brought Ike to the carriage, and hitched the old plow horse in place of the two white stallions. It took two apples and a bitten thumb to entice the old horse to pull the gilded carriage even the short distance to the smithy behind the Dancing Dog Inn. But Ike finally did his job. Simon got to work in the early hours that morning. The sun had hardly cleared the treetops before Simon had removed the wheel, fixed the spokes, and reattached it well enough to function, but not so well that it would hold for long.
His best guess was that the stranger would make it no more than a mile out of town, because the road begins to get steep and bumpier as it climbs the hills heading west outside of town. He would simply come along later in the afternoon, under the guise of fishing upstream from town. There he would stumble across the forsaken carriage, and prove himself a hero.
His duty done, deceitful though it was, Simon felt relieved. No one would suspect he had anything to do with the little accident. It would merely be misfortune for the nobleman. Secretly, every single business person in town would be delighted. Obviously the stranger had refined tastes, and would spend coin to be satisfied, to the benefit of all. It was fool-proof.
Simon went back to his quarters, a small shed built alongside the smithy, and cleaned himself up. He changed his clothes and donned a clean, simple, white, cotton shirt with a wide open collar; simple, black breeches, black stockings and black leather shoes. As prepared as he could possibly be, he walked back to the Dancing Dog Inn, hoping to catch the visitors at breakfast, and relay the good news: that the carriage would be ready to depart whenever his lordship wished it, and to offer his services, should anything more be required. While there, he would demonstrate his good manners; display his confident way of speaking; and reveal his masculine bearing to the nobleman’s beautiful daughter.
As Fate would have it, the nobleman was already finished with breakfast, and ascending the second flight of stairs back to the fourth floor apartments. Each step sighed and creaked under his weight, growing fainter and more faint, until Simon could no longer hear him.
‘Boy!’ the call of the coachman broke the spell, and Simon jerked at the sound. The large, bronzed coachman was seated at a table with three empty chairs and two empty plates. Steam was still rising from a half-empty silver mug, beside a crumb-strewn plate.
Simon approached the coachman with a smile. It wasn’t exactly according to plan, but he could still be pleasant.
‘When may I tell my master to expect his carriage to be ready?’ the coachman asked.
‘I finished as the sun rose this morn,’ Simon reported with a smile of satisfaction. Just then, Simon happened to glance up at the stairs, and there beheld the beautiful daughter of the nobleman. It was as if they were the only two people in the world. Their eyes locked. A faint smile danced playfully across the rose petals of her lips. Her golden curls bounced with each step, as the girl drifted down the stairs.
‘Boy!’ the booming voice of the coachman broke the spell again. Simon jerked his head towards the sound. ‘That will be all. Now take these plates away.’
Simon collected the plates, and as he turned to face the kitchen, he found himself eye to eye with the beautiful stranger’s daughter. ‘He-he-hello,’ he squeaked.
‘Just fresh milk, and a soft-boiled egg, please,’ was all she said.
The coachman rose from his seat and pulled a chair out for her. ‘By the window,’ she told him, and he complied.
Flustered and blushing, Simon scurried away to the kitchen, damning himself for not living up to his own expectations. He asked himself why and wondered when, or if, he would get another chance to speak with the beautiful girl again.
Lingering, sweeping, in the corner, creeping, Simon slowly faced the fact that he simply knew not when to act. A few hours past, and then at last, the nobleman emerged from his rooms and announced:
‘Mr. Brown, I must say: we appreciate your hospitality. And, now, if it’s not too much to ask, could you please have someone fetch my luggage and deliver it to mine coach?’
Simon, at first dismayed, remembered all hope was not lost. He would just need to grab his fishing gear, and head west along the road, where in but a few moments’ time, he would assuredly come upon the disabled carriage of the nobleman and his daughter fair. That would be his time to shine. That would be his golden opportunity.
Alas, somehow something had not gone accordingly. Simon walked and walked. A mile, two, more. Nothing. No sign of the carriage. He was pondering this unexpected result, repeating his actions in his mind, in an attempt to calculate an explanation for his miscalculation. As he walked and wondered, Simon topped a great, sloping hill some miles west of his little burg. Back to the east lay the valley from whence he came, and the height allowed for a commanding view of nigh 360 degrees. So Simon paused, and looked without knowing what to look for.
And then, at the edge of the road, on the steep part of the hill, Simon beheld a broken wheel. His heart sank, ceased to beat, and he could scarcely move his feet. He forced himself closer to the wheel, to the edge. Hoping not, breathing not. Before he closed the distance, Simon saw the glimmer from the brass wheel flicker in the setting sunlight, and wonder left his mind, and was replaced by confoundedness.
‘Where?’ was all he asked.
Taking one last step toward the wheel, before finally reaching the edge of the road, looking over, looking down, Simon saw what he had caused. A hero, not, nor a lover. Simon was a two horse, two man, and an angel killer.
“So, like, realizing that, dude knows he doesn’t deserve love. And probably no one in his bloodline would ever find true love either. You mean like that kind of curse?” Brad asked.
“Jeez, no. Hell, no!” Jason exclaimed. “I just meant, like, I really like Brittany Daniels, and I want her to like me back.”
“What about Brandy Holland?” Brad asked. “She’s not Mormon.”
“Oh, yeah!” Jason replied. “She is smoking hot!”