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The Apple Inn
Copyright 2011, 2020 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
Not yet.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
Experiencing the medieval era.
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Nothing, yet.
CENTRAL ENGLAND, 1300
As they walked in the hazy dusk toward Apple Inn, Mary watched a man limp quickly past them and said to her brother Gilbert, “He will be there. I was hoping for a quiet meal this evening.”
Their mother raised her eyebrows, moved closer and said softly, “Mary. We must show compassion and understanding for those who are less fortunate.” She frowned at Gilbert, who said, “Yes, Mother.”
Mary said, “But Mother, he talks so much.”
“Then eat and enjoy the meal. Listen a little bit. Some of what he says is of interest. Oh, good evening, Sir Darton.”
“Good evening to all.”
Mary looked back and nodded at one of their neighbors; he carried a bow and arrow, and a dead hare rested over one shoulder.
“Sir Darton!” Mary’s father said. “Walk with us. On your way to the Apple Inn?”
“Thank you, kind sir. Yes.”
“It is a fine evening for walking, and a most rewarding meal awaits us.”
“Have you eaten the chickpea soup?” Sir Darton asked.
“Many times. It is most savory.”
“And we will be entertained by Barlow. I saw him not five minutes ago, moving quite fast to the Inn.”
Mary sighed; her brothers grinned at her. Her father winked at her and said, “Sometimes I enjoy the story-telling.”
Her mother squared her shoulders, muttered, “John!” and moved toward Apple Inn.
The Inn was large and filled two buildings with several doorways between them. The citizens of the village chatted and ate and drank. The innkeeper and his staff moved from kitchen to tables and back. Large open windows looked onto the street, which grew dimmer in the twilight. Candles began flickering up and down the long street.
Inside, the family found a table in the middle of the room, and ordered.
Just as soup arrived, Barlow stood up from a table near the kitchen. Mary almost groaned with disappointment. She glanced at her mother, who was talking to one of her friends from church, then sighed and resumed eating.
Barlow limped to the innkeeper, dragging his left foot. The innkeeper pointed to a small box. Barlow stood on the box and cleared his throat.
The room grew quiet.
Barlow said, “I had a dream last night. I dreamed men and women were able to see at night without candles and torches.”
A woman said, “How?”
“There was light that came from inside the buildings.”
“Did the walls shine?” a young boy asked. An older boy nudged him and frowned.
“Yes. They did. And the ceilings, too.”
Mary noticed the blacksmith, cobbler and baker as they glanced at each other and frowned.
“What else?” Mary’s mother asked. She was known for being one of the most Christian women in town: full of grace, love and warmth for others, and a hard example to follow. Undoubtedly Mother would be pinching her or stepping on her foot, hoping Mary would encourage Barlow to speak.
Barlow tipped an imaginary hat at Mother. “Ma’am. Begging your pardon, but women went and did as they pleased, without the protection of men.”
An old man’s voice from the back of the restaurant said shakily, “They do that already.”
Laughter and snickers went around the room.
Barlow said, “Well. More of them did, then. And they were talked about with awe.”
A small girl said, “Did you dream about the flying horses again?”
Barlow smiled at her. “They were not horses. They were shaped like birds. But they were not. They moved like horses, though. They moved people great distances and very quickly.”
Mary glanced at the blacksmith, who nudged the cobbler and baker and drew an imaginary shape on the table. They all chatted softly.
The girl said, “You said some were on the ground. With funny feet.”
“Yes. Those on the ground were shaped like buildings. Like big carts or barrows.”
Mother pinched Mary’s thigh.
Mary said, “What about books?”
Barlow’s eyes lit up. “There were books everywhere.”
Everyone gasped.
“Books are rare,” the blacksmith said. “They have to be handmade -- every cover and every page.”
Barlow said, “I dreamed of stores that sold only books.”
The innkeeper, who listened with squinty eyes and folded arms, said, “Did they make a profit?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Hmph.” The innkeeper returned to cleaning a recently-vacated table.
Mother pinched Mary’s thigh again.
Oh my Lord and Savior please give me patience, she thought. She said, “What about music?”
Mother whispered, “A wonderful question, my dear.”
Barlow stood silently for a few moments. He shook his head, fidgeted with his fingers, looked around, and finally said, “If I stood here until the end of time, I could not explain well about music of the future.”
“Did the music go away?” asked the little girl.
“No, my dear. Think of it in this manner. Think of all possible types of music as a rainbow. Think of the Lord’s music as the most gentle, most faint color. Think of the court jesters’ music as a color darker than that. Now think of music that sounds like a horse galloping. Or a group of men drinking and sharing stories. Or men at war. Or ....”
He blushed. He cleared his throat and said, “Imagine music that represents all the emotions of man. Even his most violent acts. That music I would not wish to hear again. I would not recommend even to mine enemies. That was most loud.”
A traveling court musician studied his lute while chewing slowly, then flinched when a baby threw a small purse on the floor.
Barlow said, “I will tell you the odd part of this dream. Men and women, boys and girls, almost everyone I saw, spoke not to each other but to things held in their hands.”
“They stopped talking to each other?” a woman asked.
“Oh, they talked to each other. But instead of face to face, they did so with these things.” Barlow made a square shape with his hands. “They were most enamored with these things. They caused great loss of life and limb.”
“What was of interest about these things?” asked the blacksmith.
“I truly do not know, sir. Indeed, they were unusual. They allowed one to view images and listen to sounds. And a means of contacting most anyone. But does not this wonderful world from our Creator give us images and sounds and one another?”
The room was silent for a while. Then the old man’s voice said, “Hear, hear.” At first a few people politely clapped their table, and then everyone did.
Barlow bowed and said, “Thank you. Cherish one another. Do not find substitutes for each other, and for the world around you. Good night.”
The blacksmith folded his napkin into a square; he and the cobbler and the baker examined it.
Mary shivered and turned away. Perhaps Barlow was a prophet.
She ate, and did her best to enjoy the soup, bread, pork and fruit.
Later, they walked outside toward home, using the light of the buildings’ candles as guidance. The sky was clear, with the moon providing additional illumination.
A faint scent of sewage drifted her way, followed by burning iron from the blacksmith’s shop, yeasty bread and pastries from the bakery, grassy and spicy aromas from the surrounding forest, and the earthiness of animals everywhere: horses, dogs, cows, cats, mice.
The blacksmith and cobbler muttered to each other from their doorways: “It would have its own means of power or being.” “Certainly, but how would one see people or places on it?” “I do not know. It may be something not yet invented.” “How would one see things after seeing them? You would have to paint it and make it small.” “Or make the original just as it is ....”
Mary shivered again, and pulled her hood over her head, not wanting to hear any more. But the words stayed with her.
She thought of people of all ages as they lived and worked in the village, often creating ways to make life easier: A neighbor had placed a wide wooden plank from a high doorstep to the ground, to allow Darton and the elderly a way of entering without stepping up. The wagons and carts had wheels that the men often discussed in great detail: how thick they should be, how to best place them beneath their loads, how round. The people discussed farming, the land, who worked for whom, who ruled the villages and the towns and the land.
Were there more things to discuss, and things not yet known? Was Barlow a prophet, with a way to see the future? How far away was that? A hundred years? Three hundred? More?
Perhaps those things would never be invented, she thought, as she walked with her family. Perhaps people would always farm the land, and eat with light only from candles, and speak to one another without little objects in their hands.
Perhaps there would be no music other than church music and the cheerful rhymes of the troubadours and jesters.
She suspected that if they were made, perhaps the inventions would be useful, but she would not live long enough to find out.
She felt thankful for the cool medieval air against her face, and the scents of the little village around her, and the simple three-room house up ahead.
~*~ END ~*~
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