Clegg The Teller

Volume Three
1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-80381-478-0
Verlag: Grosvenor House Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 389 Seiten

The year is 401 BC, a new art form is burgeoning, what we now call La Tene, or Celtic, spreading north from the alpine regions. Three years earlier Athens had finally been defeated by Sparta and her allies; Rome is but a fledgling city state; the Etruscan confederation is in decline; hordes of Gallic warriors are rampaging south over the Alps and through all this, two from the far northern Tin Islands, blithely wander. It is a tale related by a contemporary storyteller, thankfully unconstrained by words and phrases that had been off limits to the Teller when entertaining his Iron Age audience. Notwithstanding, the style of delivery remains concise, avoiding hyperbole and melodrama, with the narrator hoping, as the Teller had done, to paint pictures in people's minds. The dialogue is again fairly contemporary, minus anything too modern, such as current phrases, slang, or anything pandering to recent trends. Underlying all, is the tension felt by the Teller, bound by his pact with the all-powerful spirit world, those who had bestowed the gift to entertain by his words, on condition he never immersed himself in their world. To actually alter the course of a life, he felt certain, would at the very least, bring loss of the ability he'd been granted and at worst, he could not even begin to imagine the scale of retribution exacted. Breaking that pact, invited tragedy, but when would it strike? The not knowing was worse than the certainty it would.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Clegg, John

Leseproben

Quietly playing on the radio was, “Under the pressure,” by War on Drugs. As the final soft guitar throbs sent waves of calm around the room, the storyteller’s guests eased themselves into chairs provided.

The radio was switched off, all were thanked for returning to listen to the second part of the tale and after making the usual silent plea for words to be gifted, commensurate with the assemblies’ expectations, the storyteller began.

Do any of you know the modern-day name for the settlement our two travellers have arrived at? One man thought he knew, but didn’t dare say, for fear of looking silly. Those around him seemed so bright and confident, but having said that, not one of them guessed right. The storyteller smiled. Perhaps it will become evident as more details are provided.

It was a bustling port and accommodation was not hard to find, but information the Teller had hoped to gain from his contacts, men of influence, with theoretically enough local knowledge to guide them to boats bound for far side of salt waters, had not been forthcoming. Assistance in fact amounted to no more than well-meaning phrases and suppositions, for although those notables organised the general running of the community, including toll gathering from those availing themselves of the port’s facilities, they had no knowledge of where the incoming goods they had taxed were then bound for, whether by cart, packhorse, river craft or aboard boats trading out on open water. They could give detailed accounts of what had arrived and where it had come from, but had only the haziest knowledge of departures and destinations.

The pair were forced to enquire dockside and the results didn’t exactly lift the spirits. Usually in such communities there exists at least one who understands all the comings and goings, but with numerous avowals of certainty from so many, how could they know who was right? It was exhausting and confusing, especially when crews searched for, were often not evident, but buried in the murky depths of hostelries dotted along the quayside. They were sent from one to the next, with each advisor seeming an expert, but the boats they were directed to, when finally locating the crew, either had no spare room or weren’t bound for anywhere near where they hoped to be heading.

The Teller did have the satisfaction of predicting the tides’ ebbs and flows, well sort of, but it was still baffling as to why he had been so completely wrong at the river crossing. He didn’t labour the point, however, as Megan had that, ‘how fascinating,’ look, worn by ladies when not the slightest bit interested.

What did rivet her attention mind you and she could hardly take her eyes off them, were the strange birds that roamed the streets, heads bobbing back and forth as they picked their way over the mud, crooning and stabbing at scraps of hidden nourishment. The general sound of contentment rang like muffled bells, until disturbed, then in a clatter and fuss they’d take refuge on nearby thatch. Megan had never in her life, seen such creatures and stood watching their movements, mesmerized.

“What comical birds. Are they dangerous?”

“Not really, but they can give a nasty peck.”

“What are they for. Are they kept for eating?”

The Teller knocked the sounding board of a nearby dwelling. A lady appeared and at his request went back inside to re-emerge holding a small basket containing a clutch of eggs.

“They lay these?” Megan asked the woman.

At the Teller’s translation the woman nodded in reply.

“They’re not as big as duck eggs, but even so they’re huge. How often do they lay? How many times a year?”

“If the weather’s right,” said the Teller, “every day.”

“What? Shanchie, they’re miracle birds. Why don’t they fly away? What keeps them here?”

“They can fly up to roost for the night, but not much further. There’s no need to clip their wings as with duck and geese.”

“If we had these at home, life would be so much easier. What are they like to eat?”

“These hens don’t get eaten, not until too old to lay that is, their eggs are too valuable. It’s the young cocks that end up on the spit.”

“Cocks?”

“Male birds.”

“What do they taste like?”

“Chicken,” said the Teller with a laugh. “Look there’s the main cock of the brood.”

The cockerel, resplendent in silky plumes of dark red and green, with perfect timing, beat its wings and crowed in deafening triumph from the high vantage point of a nearby storage hut.

“He looks a proud one,” said Megan. “It’s as if he knew we were talking about him.”

So that was her introduction to this particular form of poultry, having first arrived in the southeast, roughly about this time, at what we now call, the Mid-Iron Age. It seems strange, that something we now think of as a typical rural feature was still unheard of in the rest of the country. Another interesting point, the area we often call the Garden of England had greater renown at the time for its deposits of iron. But anyway, back to their efforts of gaining passage to foreign parts.

By the end of the first day, they had had no luck other than finding a boat that maybe had room to take them, but unfortunately, was only journeying as far as a nearby western port, located at the shortest crossing point between home shores and the vast lands beyond. Its departure had been delayed. Part of the intended cargo had become bogged down en route thanks to the recent deluge. The same storm our intrepid travellers had so nearly been caught in. Packhorse traders had managed to wade through, but a number of carts had become horribly stuck.

The crewman consulted, had said, as far as he knew the goods were on their way, but they’d been told not to expect them for at least two days. The Teller considered seeking out the captain, to enquire about possible spare room aboard, but thinking again, didn’t dare, for fear they’d become stranded along the coast. At that point he still had high hopes of being taken directly to their destination. How soon such optimism can evaporate.

Later, at one of the small dockside hostelries, while sipping at drinks of consolation, awaiting the food’s arrival, they became aware of a youth standing before them, smiling as if a life-long friend. His grubby woollen leggings were baggy at the knee and when turning to acknowledge a greeting hailed, they noticed the rear view was even baggier, as if something unpleasant could have been nestling in the gusset. He introduced himself and said he had heard of their enquiries for a boat.

The Teller didn’t take to the man, but with the day having been tiring and dispiriting, he listened to what he had to say.

The stranger told them, his home was directly across on foreign shores and as luck would have it, was due to return, embarking the very next morning. On securing passage earlier, the captain had told him how incredibly lucky he’d been, for his boat was almost full to capacity. Without being asked, he sat and then leaning close, warned in low tones, of certain individuals who made their way in life, preying on unwary travellers. He avowed his honesty and to prove it, with chest puffed out, declared, he expected no sort of fee for providing help. He would be at their service for free, glad to show them where the departing boat was moored and introduce them to the captain.

The same thing was said three different ways as if repetition made it all the more believable. Megan, eying the man, although not having understood the conversation, thought plausible, summed the man up.

The food arrived, Megan’s first taste of chicken and the youth declared, far from being one to intrude, he would leave them in peace, but did ask if they could await his return. He would be as quick as humanly possible, but it was important he check with the captain; ensuring there was still room for two extra travellers. It wasn’t in his nature to make promises he couldn’t keep.

The Teller had ordered the capon as a special treat for his lady and the meal’s arrival had lifted many an envious head, following the aroma. Megan simply went into raptures. She couldn’t believe the flavour. Having eaten blackbird, dove, various songbirds and crow, she declared it to have a succulence matched only by duck. Unfortunately, her elation was marred by the sight of something in the doorway. “Grubby Britches is back.”

The youth approached and they could predict his message, for it shone from his face. “Success! It’s arranged,” he told them. “I just got to him in time. You should have seen the look on the faces of the other two. Those who missed the boat.” He wiped his brow and laughed, “Good job I ran there.”

He again told the same thing three different ways, explaining he would be there to collect them the following morning. “Not too early,” he’d added. “There’s no need and I’m not one for intruding on people’s slumbers.”

Of course, neither could quite believe it, but the smiling youth was insistent and under the circumstances they had little choice.

True to his word he was there cheery faced to greet them next morning, rather earlier than promised in fact, for they’d not even had time to partake of the scrap of food included in the deal for the lodgings. The Teller hefted his load, adjusting it for comfort and Megan went to do the same, but was a little shocked at having it was wrested from her.

“Let me carry that,” said the youth with a smile, swinging it up onto his back and off they set along the path leading to the dock. Megan nipped back for the food forgotten in the...