As related, upon due reflection by various and sundry elders of fictional composition; as passed on by scurrilous mudhens, who, i’faith, scour the tidal scraps of said fabled river, in search of fortune.
Your scribe and guide, I must relate, shall be Sir Winglebird of Avon Upon a Bar of Soap, Pansygate, Dover, Twisgate, and the stalwart Roman ruin of Lazyass. In short, a bastard. But of noble lineage, you must admit.
According thus to the tumult of the Seven Seas, at the mercy whereof the Four Winds hold sway, ensnared by sea serpents, bedeviled by the very trolls of bridges and crossroads, pillaged by highwaymen as in the days of King Arthur, subject withal to demons, sorcerers, devils and vagabonds of all description; gipsy magick, soothsayers, alchemists, periwinkles, frolicking maidens, faeries with fine wings of gossamer, tarts, a lot of those, aye, one must countenance the bald fact that life is an outpouring of Grace, not to mention, fine mead.
Betimes oh gallant reader! Methinks it an odd extravagance, nay, a wayward desire, to relate forthwith the cunning tales of that Right Honorable Rodent of Reknown, malefactor and miscreant of nature, denizen of the redoubtable Wubble Shire, under the sway of the Good King Assklown, in mighty England, in the Year Of Our Lord, 920. That is to say, verily, and without preamble, the story of Yeoman Mouse.
Truth to say, ye might ponder, withal, on the exact specie of thought by which means a mere rodent, to whit, Mouse, shall doth grace these parchments with such noble (ignoble?) mutterings, squeeks, gnawings, scritchings, twitching, and scuttering about. Would that thou shall thinkest so. Verily, we must aver, perchance, on what the Lord himself, who, doubtless pondering these same conturbences in the Roman days, doth speaketh plain truth on the matter.
As follows, to paraphrase: the meek shall inherit the earth. And such like on the precarious fate of the rich man v. the simple yeoman, pertaining to the way to heaven; paved with gold as it were for the likes of our hero, whereas the rich man shall be shackled with his chains of earthly gold, the heathen bastard.
Be that as it may, for the sorcerer of time doth bid us hasten, and ye, faithful reader of undoubted countenance, inquire as to the precise nature of our rodent, bequeathed from the earth of creation to scamper ever and anon upon England’s blessed shores.
Not to mention, withal, having undergirted our sacred duty, that is, to build mighty ramparts to the crowns of England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, the Isle of Wight, the Fifth of Forth, The Outer Hebrides, the Inner Pudding, the Earl of Lackluster, the Thane of Wartbriar, and the Feign of Fortnights, we must, with Godspeed, dither not, and verily, explain ourselves, in such manner as syllables ever delighted the King’s English.
Which is to say, this brief entre, as the vile Frenchman would have it, is due to no other purpose than the manifest wizardry of rodent hibernation. In short, Yeoman Mouse is rarely out of his squalid hut before Saint Patrick’s Day. Many is the year in which April Fool’s Day doth contrive to appear, before we catch but a glimpse of his whiskers and beady eyes.
Indeed, that pagan creature, the Easter Bunny, doth remark with more than a measure of soulless guile, that Yeoman Mouse wouldn’t never in the Spring awaken, were it not for the toothsome articles so generously granted him by means of the dewy soft basket laid out that morning at Mouse’s doorstep. We would not hazard even the remotest glimpse of said Easter basket; be it known that, for rodents, in particular, of all God’s worthy creatures, we are enjoined that they are a mite territorial, in especial when items of comestible substance are in question. Having been forewarned, perhaps alarmed, at scattered about, meager skeletons, the remains of poachers upon Mouse’s Easter basket, we demur, and leave to him the field, as it were, and fairly won.
In short, let us scrutinize the modus operandi of Yeoman Mouse at some discreet distance. Verily once he hath deigned to rise, and assembled his porridge, due, doubtless to a perked up fire, we espy as of quite tasty aspect, with the possible adornment of a muckle of tootleberries. And, having washed, after a fashion, he repairs out of doors at last, and surveys his demense.
To whit: his turnip patch. It takes not a soothsayer to know that never did the chariot of Apollo cast its throng of sunbeams on such a dismal plot. Why, even the turnips themselves sense their own misfortune. “Dammit to heaven” sayeth the plumpest purple orb of the crop. “This bastard rodent better measure up afore Judgement Day! We want some tilling and weeding, by Jesu!” One of the lesser of the turnips agreed “Aye, a feckless miscreant that lot is! When it storms, our brothers drown, when it suns mightily, we parch!” One cannot disagree with these observant denizens of the vegetable kingdom.
Further, the thought occurs, as betwixt one’s whiskers, whither goeth this worthless sot, Yeoman Mouse? The witch-toad knoweth: down the path, ere along, to the village. Whereat, in all of its glory, we find the Hognuts Inn. So sayeth thou, goodwoman. But, let us have a peek, and inquire within, withal.
Gadzooks! What mead doth flow, anon. Verily, it is said, that the stalwart Romans, as of old, did bend their fabled road twixt the Shire, if only to make convenient for legions on the march to quaff mightily of the local brew. Indeed, such Druids as predate Roman times are said to have bewitched the waters hereat, to produce the most pleasant mead in all the land.
Betimes! And, what now? Why, Yeoman Mouse, naturally, with such a flagon of fine mead, surely of several times his rotund size, the excelsior of Christendom, as it were, coursing mightily down his tiny gullet.
[To be continued. By fortune, good sense or otherwise, as from 02/19/2020, by David Carniglia]