Friday Fiction: Thrand Part Fourteen

 

After Thrand had gone to his chambers to stow away his new mourning cloak and change his smeared tunic, he took Kettle to the Communal Lavatory, where he introduced the young Morg to the hitherto unfamiliar mysteries of washing up. With scrubbed hands and face (and rags somewhat freshened with healthy doses of sweetgrass water), Kettle was now ready to appear in the Judicial Refectory. They entered the room, and a long speculative buzz went around the tables, only hushed when Thrand cast a stern eye around the eaters. The two grabbed plates and forks and got in line along the long rows of food-laden tables. Thrand, mindful of the Healer’s new injunctions, ended up with somewhat smaller portions than usual, but Kettle, who seemed to have decided to get while the getting was good, had an absolutely mountainous pile, including three different meats and at least five different desserts. They sat at Thrand’s private table, and a waiter brought them two mugs and a pitcher of small ale.

They tucked in with no further ceremony than “Shall we?” “Let’s!” The older Morg, though ravenous from the unusual exertions of the day, tried to slow himself down and really enjoy what short commons he had. This gave him time to observe with envy and astonishment Kettle’s truly amazing and heroic efforts to cram the mountain of food down in one setting, washed down with noisy gulps of waterish ale from an ever-refilled cup. When the young Morg finally seemed to be slowing down, and Thrand’s plate was already long empty, the old Morg thought it was at last time to get to business. He cleared his throat. Kettle cocked a wary eye up at him, like a cautious dog interrupted at his bone.

“You don’t have to stop eating,” the High Justice said. “But start listening to my offer. I’ve said I want you to be my page. I want you to know I’ve never had a page before. But not only am I facing a serious judicial crisis, I’ve just suffered a mild heart attack …”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sir.” Kettle interjected quickly.

“Thank you; but never mind that for now, child.” Thrand tugged his beard. “Just listen. So I need a helper, to take some of the load of ordinary chores off of me, but most of all, I need somebody to be my conscience.”

“Your conscience, boss?” The young Morg asked cheerfully, stuffing a huge wad of cake in. “Far as I can tell, Chief Justice, you’re the conscience of the whole city. What could you possibly need me for?”

“Not for the City, lad, but for me. I’m going to be busy thinking about the City, and I won’t have time to think about myself, see? I’ve got to lose weight and watch my health or I’m dead. I’m going to be under a lot of pressure, and no doubt I’ll try to take any opportunity to ‘forget’ my walks or eat more than I should. That’s why I want to hire you. You will keep me on track; that’ll be part of your job.”

“So I’m supposed to boss you around, boss? Go on with you then. And you’ll listen to me?”

“I’ll write it into your Articles, Kettle. That’ll make it legal, you see, and as Chief Justice, I wouldn’t dare to break the Law. It would be too shameful. Then you could actually sue me, and that would destroy my reputation.”

Kettle whistled at the thought.

“And you’d really do that to yourself?”

Thrand sighed.

“I really must, son. I know myself too well. I need it for a safeguard, a guarantee. I’d rather not die, you see. I’ve cared for myself for over a century now and look where it’s got me.”

Kettle grinned.

“And you want me to be your nursemaid, eh? Will I tan your hide if you don’t obey?” A candied plum was popped into the already grinding muzzle, juices pouring between the threshing teeth.

“Let’s hope it never comes to that,” Thrand chuckled. “Wipe your chin, lad; that’s what the napkin is for.” He took a swig of ale. “Now to further sweeten the deal. Your meals (good meals like this one, child) and clothes will be totally provided for, and you’ll get a silver mark every month to spend as you will, and a free day every two weeks to spend it in. Your own room next to mine. You’ll be doing a lot of basic work, of course, but as I said before, you’ll be around the Courts, and if you find any affinity for the work, I’ll put you on the legal track. And after a year, you can leave the contract and go your merry way. You can’t ask fairer than that.”

Notes

I have the Morgs drinking small ale, which is a type of ale with very low alcohol content. It was widely drunk during the Middle Ages as it had just enough alcohol to kill whatever bugs were constantly contaminating the water, and so was a safer drink than 'pure' water. Of course, neither the Middle Ages nor the Morgs had any real idea about germs.

After a quick glance at my notes, I was referring to Kettle as 'Kettil' half the time, which was my original spelling. I also found in doing rewrites that I have Kettle whistling. That was purely accidental. 

Here is the first paragraph I ever wrote about the character that would become Kettle (never used, as it turned out): Kettle woke with the early morning sun in his eyes. There was also the odor of nightly manure in his nose, a not unusual occurrence these days. The proximity of a nice steaming dunghill on a cold early spring morning had its comforts and its drawbacks. A layer of rank winter grass clippings and a spreading tarp helped accentuate the first and alleviate the second. There is an old Morg saying that ‘needs must’, and young Kettle was a Morg who had many needs. Right now, the need was getting a bit of breakfast. His stomach was already kicking him to get up.