Ch. 11: Dragon's Tongue & Hag's Feet

Chapter 11

Dragon’s Tongue & Hag’s Feet

By Kristen S. Sandoz

2013

Let us take a trip to a much happier story than the one of Little John I last told.  Of course, this means we head back to the Witch Hazel’s cottage which is incidentally called, Butterbrick Cottage.  Why is it called Butterbrick you are wondering?  Well that is because their sweet Jersey cow made the most fabulous sweet cream butter, which Pearl would store in crocs all throughout the year.  This butter was of such high quality that it would age in those crocs and become, over time, the most delicious butter you could ever imagine.  These days the butter you get in little boxes at the store with its pale lifeless yellow color does not even compare to the butter Pearl would sell in little bricks from the front step of the little cottage.  Her butter was a bright rich deep yellow and had the taste of heaven.  So the cottage became known as Butterbrick.  The name may not come from an exciting story, but I bet you wish you could have tasted some of that butter?

 

At Butterbrick Cottage we find Pearl busy at work.  She is such a mess with a blackened apron, disheveled hair and a rug beater in hand that it is hard to remember she is a person of royal heritage.  One thing I admire about Pearl is that she is not afraid to get her hands dirty by doing a good honest day’s work.  Today she is beating the rugs. A job which takes a great amount of gusto and is a good job to do when you are feeling a bit frustrated like Pearl was feeling at the moment. But that is yet another story and I will not go off the trail for it.  You will perhaps hear about it one day.

 

For now Pearl has been cleaning the cottage since sunrise trying to prepare it for Hazel’s return home.  The Witch Hazel has been on a long journey collecting a rare healing herb that was in full harvest on the far side of the kingdom in the Numinous Mountain range.  This particular herb, known to many as Dragon’s Tongue, was only found in that part of the kingdom and it could only be gathered every seven years at precisely the right time.  Healing herbs can be persnickety things for they require proper gathering and storing in order to maintain their fullest healing abilities.  Dragon’s Tongue was even more fussy for its window of harvest was so short and so long in coming. 

 

On top of this the harvesting was a dangerous business and often with small yield.  It was a favorite of the dragon population which lived in the Numinous Mountains.  The herb was really a wild flower with very dark indigo colored petals that formed a cup and drooped down toward the ground like a sad puppy.  Out of the cup hung the stamen which was bright orange and coiled into a spiral at the end much like the tongue of a dragon.  The dragons loved it because the petals and stamen were very sweet and if eaten in a large enough quantity would put them in to the most pleasant delirium.  The dragons would hoard the flowers and guard them fiercely.  One could always tell when a dragon had indulged in its Dragon’s Tongue stash for its tongue would be a bright blue from the pigment of the petals.  Fortunately, a dragon in this state could be easily persuaded to do just about anything.  Some say that gold and treasure is a dragon's weakness.  I say it is Dragon's Tongue. The former makes them greedy and mean.  The latter giddy and almost tame.

 

I should also tell you that Dragon’s Tongue made a very beautiful dye but required such an immense amount of the herb to actually dye a piece of clothing that is was a color only royalty could afford to wear.  In this kingdom the blue and orange of the Dragon’s Tongue were the colors of the King and his royal family.  No one else was allowed to wear those colors together. 

The journey to the Numinous Mountains was long and the work was hard for Hazel once she got there.  She had been gone a fort night when one of her doves arrived at Butterbrick Cottage with a message for Pearl telling her she would return home on the evening of Saturn’s Day.  Pearl knew Hazel would be tired and worn out from this journey.  Pearl wanted to make it easier on Hazel by having Butterbrick in tip top shape.  It was just one way she could show her kind and faithful Aunt how much she loved her.

 

Pearl had more planned for Hazel than just a tidy cottage.  She knew that the single most loving thing she could do for Hazel was to rub her tired and abused feet (Hazel was not a small women and her feet complained about this greatly).  If we could peek into the deepest part of Pearl’s soul we would discover that this was the one job Pearl dreaded more than anything else, even mucking out the pig pen.  Pearl’s horror of this job was not at all unfounded.  I think any girl or even boy her age would recoil in dreadfulness upon seeing the Witch Hazel’s old and haggard feet.  They were the only part of Hazel, besides her wrinkly face, crooked nose, knobby hands, and crackly voice, which lived up to the title of witch.  Nay, they went beyond witch and into the hag category.  I will not attempt to describe Hazel’s feet to you.  I’m afraid it would be too disrespectful to her.  However, I’m sure you can imagine your own grandmother’s cracked, scaled, and gnarly feet.  Then enhance that image with the Old Hag Filter and that would be what the Witch Hazel’s feet looked like.  Now let me ask you, would you want to wash those feet? 

Neither did Pearl.  This is, however, where the weeds are separated from the flowers.  Pearl was a real princess and despite how much she dreaded the job of washing Hazel’s feet she knew how much it meant to Hazel, so Pearl did it anyway.  She didn’t merely wash Hazel’s feet she did it with joy because she knew her adoptive old Aunt did so much good for the world and got so little in return.  Who was there to love and care for Hazel?  There was no one, except Pearl.  So like the daughter of a true king Pearl held her head up high, smiled her sweetest most genuine smile, sang a tranquil melody, and rubbed the Witch Hazel’s nauseating feet with not a hint of repulsion to be found.  That, my friends, is a true princesses and a true prince would do the same. 

As you can see “True love is the most testing pursuit” and that is well known. Our Pearl is passing the test.

 

1…Now my story is done.

2…I love you!

3…Please, kiss me.

A Picture is Worth a 1000 Words

One day I walked into an antique store in Hailey, Idaho.  The only thing I really remember from this store was a painting.  It was nestled up high in a peeked rafter.  Hardly noticeable.  It caught my eye because it was of a small boy crying.  It was most likely rarely noticed but I fell in love with that painting.  I'm sure it had something to do with my new found motherly hormones as my first born son was then only 18 months old.  We were broke though, and I left the store without it. 

Six months later I unwrapped the very same painting for my birthday.  It was a small logistical feat for my sweet and thoughtful husband to get this beloved gift to me since we lived in the valley of Oregon nearly 13 hours away.  I unwrapped the painting and cried. 

This painting has hung in various position in our house for 8 years now.  I first hung it in our dinning room without realizing the conversation piece it would be.  Nearly every person who sat down at our table would ask the same question, "What do you think she is crying about?" (As it turned out it was a little girl, but in the shadows of the gable I saw a boy.)

It was so fun to hear different people's interpretations of this painting.  I remember my African brother, who came from a very poor area in Africa, thought she was a spoiled rich girl crying because she didn't get her way.  I thought she was crying because she missed her momma.  But my favorite interpretation came from Thing 1.  It was a wonderful conversation that went something like this.  (Keep in mind he was only about two at the time.)

Thing 1:  "Mommy why do you think that girl is crying?"
Me:  "I don't know.  Why do you think she is crying?"
Thing 1:  "Because she read a sad book."
Me: "Oh, yes.  That can sometimes make you cry.  What do you think we should do about it?"
Thing 1 (very confidently): "Umm...Hug her, pray, and read a different book."

Isn't it true that a picture is worth a thousand words?  Pictures are stories all on their own. 

I wonder what you would have to say about this crying girl if you came to our house for dinner?  What story does she tell you?  Try showing this picture to your kids and see what stories they come up with.

Ch. 10: The Bane of Little John

Hey Friends! 
Just wanted to let you know that I did the final edit on this one myself in order to get it out faster.  Editing is not my strong suit so I hope you can forgive any mistakes and just enjoy this important story.  My boys had plenty of things to say about this story.  Some were very profound.  I'd love to hear what thoughts you and your kids have regarding this story so feel free to leave a comment.

Happy Tales!
Kristen

Ch. 10

The Bane of Little John

By Kristen S. Sandoz 2013

I think now it is a good time to tell you the story of Little John.  Oh, I know you have already heard part of his story.  He was a bandit who helped rob from the rich to give to the poor.  A seemingly honorable occupation, but a bandit he was and one does not merely become a bandit, a thief, or a lying beggar overnight.  We must always remember that everyone has a story and some stories are not happy ones.  Some are complicated, hard, rot with pain, and very sad.  Such is the case with Little John.

Before I tell you the rest, or rather I should say the beginning, of his story I need to tell you about one very important little thing called a Soule Locket.  Every child ever born in the world in which this particular kingdom exists is given a Soule Locket on the evening of the seven night of life.  This Soule Locket is given them by the Keeper of the Lockets.  He is a mysterious and elusive man known for his wisdom and power.  Some would call him a wizard others a warlock but regardless of what you call him he is good.  He appears to baby and, sometimes mother, that magical night of the baby’s life, much like the fairy in Pinocchio but with less glitter and sparkle.  He places a single Soule Locket, engraved and fashioned by his own hand so that no two lockets are the same, on the neck of the baby and whispers a blessing which he encloses in the locket.  This blessing becomes what is known as Soule Dust and it is the single most precious element in this mystical world.  Most children are taught at an early age to guard and protect their Soule Lockets. Some never learn their true value therefore lose it or carelessly give it away.  Still others are forced to pawn it in order to maintain their own miserable existence.  Then there are those who have them ruthlessly stolen from them.  If the truth be told a Soule Locket with its contents fully intact is a priceless and highly coveted possession that some would even kill for one.

I hope you have a clear understanding of what a Soule Locket is.  Now let’s get back to Little John.  He was the youngest child of a beloved and faithful priest.  The priest had three daughters and another son, named Benjamin, who was the eldest.  When Little John was four his older brother was 16.  Most people in their village called him Big Ben for he was a large and strong lad for his age.  In fact Little John was called little because his small boy stature next to Big Ben made for a decided contrast which was hard to ignore.  The two boys, despite their age and size difference were very close.  Big Ben loved having a brother to look after, wrestle, tease, teach, and love.  Naturally, Little John thought the world of Big Ben.  How could he not?  Big Ben was kind, brave, sharp, and strong. Everything a young boy admires.

That is why it was a total surprise to everyone when an outbreak of the pocks infected all five children of the priest’s family.  All recovered from the illness except Big Ben.  His fever lingered and soon an infection set in that eventually took his life.  Little John was devastated.  How could a strong lad like Big Ben die and he himself, who was so weak in comparison, live?  The question was too incomprehensible for Little John and the hole left in his heart was far too great for any answer to fill.  He became a sullen boy, quiet and brooding never saying much and smiling even less.  For two years he wandered the forests around his home endlessly neither playing nor hunting like he and his brother use to do.  He wandered and did nothing more. Every effort was made by his parents to help him process his older brother’s death.  But eventually they concluded it was something he must work out on his own.  They let him be and instead lifted up prayers on his behalf.

When Little John was six a strapping young nobleman in his year of Quest came seeking a temporary resting place from the priest of this small village in which he was passing through.  No one expected Little John to even notice.  But notice he did and the family thought for sure this Quester was the answer to their prayers.  He was handsome, friendly, and fun.  Little John took an instant liking to him.  The Quester gave him rides on his horse and taught him sword play. They went fishing and played hide-n-seek in the forest.  To Little John it was as if Big Ben had returned from the dead. 

The family was so pleased with Little John’s happiness they begged the Quester to stay with them for a whole month for they had grown fond of him as well.  He was a great help around the priests homestead.  He chopped and stacked firewood, hunted game, and escorted Little John’s sisters into the village where he would often buy them little luxuries such as fragrant soaps or silk flowers for their hats.  He would never return to the priest’s home without something special for the Misses.  One time he even brought her a five pound bag of sugar, an expense which far out paid his boarding fees.  He seemed to take delight in entertaining, helping, and giving to everyone.  Light had returned to their dim part of the kingdom.

Then one day the Quester was gone and with him went Little John’s Soule Locket and with the locket went the spirit of Little John once again.  It was quite a nasty turn of events.  Over the course of his stay the Quester had gained more and more trust from the family.  Little John loved and trusted him most of all.  The Quester knew this.  In fact his single plan for staying with the family at all was to obtain at least one valuable Soule Locket.  Originally he thought it would be from one of the sisters. He was very good with the ladies.  But when he realized how attached Little John was to him he knew that Little John would be his easiest prey.  In the end all he had to do was ask Little John and the locket was his.  Having got what he came for he left.

You may have already ascertained that this Quester was none other than the malignant Duke Monstroke himself in his true year of Quest.  Only he was bored with the whole thing and had already wasted all of his money in his first three months of quest on drinking too much, showing off for beautiful women, and gambling with men who were clearly smarter than he.  Now in order to survive he spent his time looking for weak, innocent, people to prey upon.  He would either convince them to give him some of the dust from their locket or just out right steal it all together.  Although he was handsome and seemingly kind, his true self was neither of these.  He was the most devious wolf in the most striking sheep’s clothing. 

Poor Little John had not a chance.  Once Monstroke knew he had the lad’s heart he set his teeth deep and when for his very soul.  This he obtained when he left.  Little John was happy to give him his Soule Locket but he did not expect him to leave the very next morning without a word of farewell.  This was the end for Little John.  He was but a shadow after Monstroke.  A shadow that somehow managed to live until he turned 10 at which point he ran away from home never to be heard of again.  He eventually joined a band of thieves that took their grievances with the wealthy to a new level.  They robbed from the rich and gave to the poor and this occupation was a type of revenge for Little John, who by this time was a huge hulk of a man, just like his late brother Big Ben.  Every wealthy man he robbed from he imagined was just like Monstroke (which was not at all true) and although it made his heart sing in the moment it did not bring him peace and it never brought back his Locket.

So there you have it a sad sad story!  I hope you can sleep tonight without having dreams of revenge on Monstroke yourself.  As for me I like to remember the wise words of the gracious Witch Hazel, “It is not revenge that brings peace but a heart of forgiveness and one is much harder than the other.”  I also hope you remember to heed the warning she always tells Pearl, "If you are not willing to give your life for it, don't give your Soule for it either."

 

1…Now my story is done.

2…I love you!

3…Please, kiss me.

Ch. 9: The Young Duke Monstroke

Ch. 9

The Young Duke Monstroke

There are so many stories to be told of these happy and sometimes not so happy characters that I struggle to keep on a straight course.  I am going to diverge for a moment, or possibly more, if my mind wanders, and introduce to you one of my least favorite fellows in these tales.  His name is Monstroke. Why do I not like young Duke Monstroke, you ask?  Well, mostly because he is selfish and really never thinks of anyone but himself.  It is so very hard to like a selfish person. He is what the fantasy world calls an "evil villain" and the psychology world calls a "narcissist."  In short, he thinks the universe revolves around him and is impossibly blind to the hurts or cares of anyone around him--including, and most especially, animals.  His selfishness drives him to cruelty without hesitation.  He only thinks of his own self-preservation.  In his mind everyone is against him.  I am sorry to say there might only be one little faint speck of good in him, and even that is dim and doubtful.

How was that for an introduction to my newest character?  Not so promising, is it?  But I am afraid that without Monstroke our story would be a bit less exciting, for he is part of the reason we have a story at all.  With Monstroke, I must start a few years back.  At present he is 16 years of age.  In this fine land it is customary for a boy to be sent off on his 16^th birthday on a Quest for one whole year and when he returned he would be considered a man.  So Monstroke is currently in this Year of Quest.  But four years ago he was merely 12, and at 12 he was still a boy.  This is where I must begin.

Monstroke was a lad who showed promise.  He came from a wealthy family of royal blood.  He was handsome at 12 and growing handsomer each year.  He was athletic and sharp and could be somewhat witty and charming for a boy of that age.  He was the middle brother of five boys, which unfortunately haunted him daily.  He felt he was always unjustly left out or included and it never seemed to be the one he wanted at the time or for the reason he wanted it.  His two older brothers were given big important tasks like carrying letters for their father to the King in the Royal City, but he was not old enough yet to join them.  They went to buy wild horses at auction and then were allowed to break them all by themselves, but Monstroke, at 12, wasn’t even allowed to go near them. 

Yet, when it came to things like skipping lessons to romp in the forest like his younger two brothers he was suddenly too old!  Every day he was forced to eat a whole tablespoon full of Cod Liver Oil when his younger brothers only had to have a wee little teaspoon and his older brothers didn’t have to take it at all if they didn’t want to (but usually they did).  At Christmas his older brothers got beautiful new leather sheaths in their stockings.  His younger brothers got sweet peppermint candies and a felted kick ball.  What did Monstroke get?  A silver drinking cup!  Who cares if it once belonged to his dead grandfather Monstroke (not to mention worth quite a bit of money).  Blah, blah!  How dull and disappointing.

Over and over Monstroke felt left out and forgotten.  To give him credit, his feelings weren’t entirely unfounded.  The only time his father ever paid attention to him was to bash him about or to criticize his every flaw.  He never had a kind word or gentle touch for Monstroke--nor any of his boys, for that matter.  In Monstroke’s case this caused a great erosion in his heart.  He became bitter, and bitterness chips away at the heart very slowly but steadily 'til one day, without intervention, there is simply no heart at all.  Monstroke began to think higher of himself than anyone else and by his 13^th birthday he was sure he was ready to go on his Quest a few years early.

Monstroke went to his mother; he was too sheepish to approach his father about this subject. 

“Mother, my 13^th birthday is coming up.  Don’t you think I have grown very much this year?” he asked.

“You have, my boy.  You are at least 2 inches taller these last 6 months alone,” she answered. She happened to be lengthening his breeches at that moment.

“I thought so, too.  I am definitely ready to do new things this year. Don’t you think?” he continued to probe.

“Certainly my dear.  You have new lessons to learn.” Monstroke winced upon hearing this but pushed on. 

“Don’t you think, though, that some adventure is in store for me this year?”

“I think adventure is just the thing a boy your age needs.” His mother, who was truly kind, despite being married to a difficult man, smiled teasingly.

This was all Monstroke needed.  He felt his mother’s answer was just the permission he was looking for to start off on his Quest.  That is exactly what he did.  The next day he gathered all the things he could think he might need, including his silver cup, packed them on one of the family donkeys and headed out on what he thought would be a great adventure.

It would be helpful here for me to mention that it is customary for the Quester of wealthy families to be sent off with a big celebration put on for him by his family.  All of his friends and relatives would come for the sendoff and bring gifts that would help him on this journey.  Sometimes they would give money or jewels, other times it would be a dagger, a compass, or a fine felt hat.  The father of the Quester was to provide a fine horse and the mother would usually spend a year making a special woolen cape embroidered with detailed embellishments.  But Monstroke was so eager to do his own thing he decided to provide his own supplies.  Unfortunately, he didn’t really know what he would need, so he began his Quest sorely unprepared both physically and mentally.  For along with gifts the men at the celebration will also bring stories of their own Quests as well as advice and wisdom passed down from generations of Questers, all of which would have been helpful to Monstroke.  But he was young and proud and did not see a need for any of that.

I will not go into great detail about Montstroke’s first attempt at his Quest.  I will say this; he was only gone three days before his older brothers finally found him beaten and bruised and robbed clean of all his possessions including his donkey and silver cup.  He had stolen some laundry off a line at a nearby cottage to cover himself because even his clothes, which were clearly the clothes of a rich man’s son, had been stolen.  The only problem was the only clothes he had found were women’s breeches.  He had been hiding in a tree along the road, waiting for a cart or something to pass by, hoping he could sneak a ride back in the direction he had come, when along came his brothers.  He was truly excited to see them and, without thinking, jumped from his perch and flagged them down, forgetting his delicate attire.  The older brothers found Monstroke’s predicament utterly amusing and fattened the story to make it even more delicious to tell.  It was such a well-loved story that it outlived Monstroke himself.  It became one of those stories to tell young boys about the perils of trying to be a man before you are one.

In fact, he became somewhat of a legend in his own right, for unfortunately Monstroke added a great many stories to this genre before he became a man.  And some will argue that he never actually did become a man despite his growing older.   A great many males truncate their psychological development by choosing to engage in activities of a mature nature before their mind is ready to process them.  Even more sadly, some are forced to participate in these activities, which leads to more of a paralyzed development.  Either way it is never good, and very hard to reverse the damage. 

Before Monstroke had reached his 16^th birthday he had attempted going on his Quest without sanction three times.  By the time his real Quest came around Monstroke had seen things of such debauchery, scandal, pain, suffering, pride, and malice that his mind was disfigured to the point of numbness.  In fact, on the day of his 16^th birthday when all of his friends and relations gathered for his great send-off, the Duke Monstroke did not care to go on his Quest.  Can you imagine!  For him it was a matter of, "been there, done that," even though he hadn’t really.  He was bored with the idea and altogether lazy in general.  What could a quest possibly do for him? 

There is much to tell on his account so you can be sure to hear more of this dark fellow.  For now I will end my introduction of the young Duke Monstroke and leave you with these words from the Witch Hazel: “The tempering of a good blade will not be shortened.”

One... Now my story is done.
Two...I love you!
Three...Please kiss me.