The Pauper Prince - part 3

The Pauper Prince
Chapter 3


  For Kenneth it had been a good day. For one, he'd finally convinced Mara to let him help lug the water jugs to and from the well. It had also dawned on him the irony of regarding a day as "good" that had meant an increase in manual labor. She had agreed to share the chore, not relinguish it. That was a start. Still, and he knew better than to say it aloud, he really did hate the thought of a woman performing such arduous labor alone, when it was supposed to be a shared responsibility.  And so it was, now.
  For another, the day and evening had been quiet enough that he had the time and energy to play a little bit of his lute before sleeping. Mara seemed to be indifferent to his music, except when he tried to substitute her name for the name of one of his song's heroines. It struck her as immodest, which she would not abide. Dejected, he put aside the instrument and prepared for bed.
  Something in the corner of the room caught his eye. He pointed and chuckled.
  "What's that over there?" he said. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear that was a broadsword."
  Mara started and spun around. "What? Where?"
  "Just behind you," he said, and she saw it and snatched it before he finished the phrase. She yanked up the sheets of her cot and then covered the object.
  "It's nothing," she said. "Let's get to bed."
  "Nothing? Then why be so quick to hide it?" he said, then with another chuckle: "Don't tell me I was right." She only glared at him and kept arranging the sheets. His smile faded. "Mara..."
  "What??"
  "Wha-? Why are you using that tone? I'm only curious. Of course it's not a broadsword, so what is it?"
  "It's...a broadsword." Sometimes she hated her own hatred of lying.
  "What? Show me."
  "No."
  "Why do you have a sword?" he lowered his voice into a whisper. "Please tell me that's not Erick's! Or worse: one of the guest's!"
  "One of the-?? I am no thief! It's mine!"
  Kenneth said nothing as Mara yanked back the sheets and held up her weapon. The scabbard, even in the dim candlelight, looked like nothing special: some old, worn leather with frayed straps. The grip and guard were utilitarian, with no ornamentation that he could see.
  "Why do you have a sword?"
  "My father gave it to me," she said, pulling it out just slightly before snapping it back into the scabbard with a clack. She held onto it while speaking. "I've had one for as long as I can remember. This one he gave me... I think I was 11, perhaps 12. It's always at my side when I sleep. But tonight I was s-s-stupid and forgot to hide it. Just forget about it. Let's to bed."
  "I don't think I'm going to 'forget' that there's a weapon in our room," he said. "Why would your father give you a sword?"
  "What's the matter with you?? Must you ask questions about everything you see??"
  "Hey! I don't deserve that tone, woman!" said Kenneth. "I am not your enemy! And I just found out that you've been sleeping with a deadly weapon every night!"
  She leaped to her feet and put her face inches away from his, gritted teeth, nostrils flared, rapid breaths. To her dismay Kenneth did not flinch. His expression was stern, not angry. Half a minute into their standoff, she fought to calm herself, slowing her breaths, biting her lip, breaking the gaze.
  "I'msorry," she muttered.
  "?  I didn't hear what you said," he said.
  "I'm-!" she said, her anger returning, which she fought to beat back. "Sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry. You're right; you-- didn't deserve that."
  "Apology accepted," he said. "And.. truly, if this is not something you wish to discuss-"
  "I don't, but I could at least tell you that my father gave me a sword, because he certainly didn't mean for me to be working at places like this," she said with a sigh. "I was meant to be on the battlefield, like him."
  "A soldier, you mean?" said Kenneth.
  "Yes," she said. "Well... a soldier of no kingdom. Offering his- and then my- sword for whoever paid enough."
  "A mercenary?" said Kenneth. "And he raised you to be one, too?"
  "He preferred calling us 'warriors'," she said. "But... I suppose being paid to fight is a mercenary, no matter what we want to be called."
  "But you're a w--" Kenneth said, then caught himself. Mara only looked at him as if daring him to finish. "That is, no kingdom allows... well, women... to serve as soldiers."
  "Right, no kingdom does, that I can find," she said. "Individuals, that's different. There's always somebody who wants to put together a fight. Well... not so much lately, not around here. I haven't found a good scrap in a long time. It's the only reason I work at places like this. It's that, or starve. I learned that the hard way."
  "Where is your father now?"
  She shrugged, then looked at the ground. "Dead. Gone. I'm not really certain."
  "I'm so sorry," he said softly. "How old w-?"
  "I'm not looking for pity," she said.
  "Not pity. Just condolences. Would you... mind if I asked what happened?"
  She shrugged again. "Just... part of wars and battles, you know?"
  "I see."
  "Do you?" she said. "Have you been a soldier?"
  "I've... served my king, but have never been called to fight. As I said, Gildern has been at peace for a number of years."
  "Good for you, then," she said. "Things were a little bit 'rockier' up north, where I'm from."
  "Which kingdom?"
  "Uhh... 'Breech' or something," she said. "It wasn't terribly important for me to know."
  Kenneth seemed to ponder this a moment. "Breech," he said. "Yes, I've heard of it."
  "I guess it was important for you to know," she said. "All I know is that it was colder more than warmer, and not very good land. I don't remember seeing any farmers in my village, now that I think of it. It was all livestock and fish. My father was a 'warrior,' but he had some cattle, for milk and meat. But there was reason to keep his sword, because other villages and tribes were always fighting with each other. Sometimes us, sometimes them."
  "Was your mother also a 'warrior'?" asked Kenneth.
  Mara glared. "No," she said. "And don't ask about her."
  "I had no intention of offending."
  "I know," she said. "I'm just giving fair warning." She sat on the edge of Kenneth's cot and held the sword in front of her, tip on the floor. Sometimes she twirled it absent-mindedly while speaking. "Like I said, Father raised me to take his place in battles. It's all I know. I mean, I ruined his life by being a girl and by killing my m--" She cursed quietly to herself, then clamped her mouth shut and looked at the floor again. Then looked up again, but not at Kenneth.
  "Mara, you don't need to tell me what happened," said Kenneth softly. "I was merely curious."
  "I'm fine," she said, twirling the sword again. "These are just things I hadn't really... thought about much until now. My first real battle wasn't until my fifteenth, maybe sixteenth, year. I don't remember the day being much different than any other. It was summer, I think. Yes, it had to be summer, because it was warm enough that we didn't need our thick clothing, and there were some green here and there. That was 'summer' for us. And I remember... that is, I don't remember hearing anything, but my father was very good at that. He had very good hearing. Good instincts, too. We were outside and... he was angry with me about something. But he always was, so it was nothing special. Nothing memorable. Then he looked off into the hills, and the next thing I remember, he was yelling at me to get into our hut and hide. Hide! I didn't know why he was saying that, but he grabbed some weapons, then yelled at me again to hide. To take cover. Then he ran back out, and truly, the door-skin had hardly flapped down when a blur of horses thundered by. Father yelled - actually, it was his battle roar - and then he was gone."
  "I don't mean 'gone' like I said before," she said. "I mean that he was part of whatever battle was going on outside. Even from inside I could tell this was not just another raid from a village or tribe. These people were marauders. They were out for blood and God knows what else. I have no idea why. There was screaming, more horses thundering by, battle cries. Then I smelled smoke, so they were setting the village on fire, too! And... and my father, who'd taught me my whole life to fight, and be brave, and-- and-- told me to hide in our hut? As if I couldn't go out there and defend our own home?"
  "I grabbed my sword," she said, and held up hers, "This very one - and pulled on whatever protection I could in a moment, and ran outside to help."
  She fell silent suddenly and looked off into the distance. After a time Kenneth thought about prompting her for more, but decided to wait. "To this day I don't know who those marauders were," she said finally. "But they wanted blood. And it was everywhere. Blood, and flame, and... and smoke. Some of us were still fighting. I think most were dead. Or maybe taken. That happens a lot, taking women and girls. There was more groaning and screaming from the injured and dying than screams of fear. But off in the distance, I heard my father, still roaring his battle cry. He had gotten to high ground, which is good in a fight. And I don't really remember how, but I managed to run through all of that to get to him, without tripping on a body, or being overcome by smoke, or getting killed, for that matter."
  "I reached him," she said, "And I was so proud of myself for making it there. So proud that I was going to be fighting at his side. He had his back to me, so I don't think he knew yet that I was there. I just started swinging wildly, forgetting pretty much everything he'd taught me, until I suddenly remembered what I was supposed to be doing. After that I was holding my sword properly, keeping my balance properly."
  "There was... a man..." she said, her voice getting a bit lower, "One of the attackers. He was storming up the hill to get to us. I think my father was busy with some others. So... this was my moment, you know? I was excited at first, and then... it happened again. Whatever he taught me, it just... froze up in my mind. I think it's because that the closer the man got, the bigger he was getting. And... look at me! See how tall that I am. And the look on his face, and his eyes... This was no training or practice. This was Death, coming at me. Coming for me."
  "My mind froze up, and I stuck out my blade," she said, miming the motion, "And did the stupidest thing anyone could do in a fight."
  "You closed your eyes?"
  Mara looked up, surprised. "Yes," she said. "That's exactly what I did. A lifetime of training, and I closed my eyes. I should be dead, or... horribly maimed, if nothing else. Instead, I felt a push against my hand, and a noise like 'Uck!' I opened my eyes, and saw..." Oddly enough, she smiled and chuckled a little, "He had run right into my sword." She held it up again. "He had buried his own neck into it, almost up to the guard. I'm not sure who looked more surprised: me, or him. In fact, he... looked at me, and I think he was trying to speak, but just gurgles of blood came out. Then I tried to pull out my sword, but it was harder than I thought it would be. It was stuck in there - stuck! - and then he started to fall onto me. But I managed to push him so that he rolled away from me, onto his back. Only then could I pull the sword out.  And he was still alive. Still... gurgling away the last bit of his life."
  "And instead of fighting more of them, I just... held my sword and stared at it," she said. "Stared at the blood. Watched it sliding down the blade. It was someone else's blood, on my sword, for the first time.  And... those were the last thoughts I can remember of that day. Somebody grabbed me and started shaking me. I thought it was one of them, but I didn't even fight back. Then I finally looked up and saw that it was my father. He was... more enraged than I'd ever seen him, but for the first time, he wasn't striking me. Shouting, yes, but I couldn't tell you anything he was saying. I kept seeing that man instead, and his blood. And then I was falling backwards. I think my father pushed me away and I fell down the hill. At least, that's where I was lying, the next thing I remember. My head was so heavy; my ears ringing. I must have hit something on the way down and been knocked out."
  "I don't know if it was the same day, or another," she said. "There was still smoke coming from the hill. It took me a while to get properly to my feet again. The slope of the hill didn't help, but eventually I got to the hilltop, and... my village was gone. Burned to the ground. Burnt and bloodied bodies everywhere. Most of them too burnt for me to recognize, even my father. The small bodies told me that children weren't spared, either. Livestock was slaughtered or missing.  And... no father. Not that I could find. That's why I don't know if he's dead, or just gone."
  She realized that she'd come to the end of that story, and was quiet. She gazed at the floor idly, spinning the sword, then looked up in curiosity when she heard someone sniffling. Kenneth?
  "Are you crying?" she said.
  "I... was," he said, rubbing his nose. "A little, yes. Your story was so moving."
  "I wasn't trying to make you cry," she said. "I was just saying what happened."
  "And 'what happened' moved me to tears," he said. "Did you listen to your own story? Anyone who could hear that and be dry-eyed is made of stone."
  She sighed. "Father beat the tears out of me long ago. He said that they're weak. Like a woman. I can't remember the last time I cried over anything." She gasped. "Oh, no! I didn't mean to say that you're weak or like a woman. I just didn't expect anyone to... uh..."
  "I took no offense," he said. "I wasn't raised to believe that tears are a weakness. But... oh, Mara. I never would have imagined something like that happening to anyone, let alone you."
  "And yet such things happen," she said, then forced a smile and a sad chuckle. "I have no idea why I told you all of that. I've never told anyone, any of it, before. But it was as if I couldn't stop, once started."
  "Then I'm honored to be the one you shared it with. You lost an entire village. Everyone you ever knew or loved."
  "I wouldn't say 'loved'," she scoffed. "People didn't like me much."
  "Surely that can't be true."
  She shrugged. "Taller than all the other children, the girl who was supposed to be a boy, a father who hated everyone," she said. "People knew to just avoid me."
  "I'm so sorry."
  "Back to pitying, I see," she said.
  "I'm not-! pitying you," said Kenneth."Yes, I'm greatly saddened by your story, but don't pity you. You're to be admired."
  "Now I know that I've kept us up too late," she said. "And for that, I'm sorry. The last thing I intended tonight was to rob us of sleep."
  "Think nothing of it," he said. "As I said, I'm honored that you trusted me enough to tell your story. But, um..." he said, pointing to her sword. "You still mean to sleep with that beside you?"
  For the first time she seemed contrite. "It's... not that I don't trust you," she said. "It just helps me feel safe."
  "But now I don't feel safe."
  She shrugged. "I've had it at my side every night, and you didn't know it," she said. "This is no different."
  Kenneth frowned and folded his arms. "I still don't like it. But if it helps you feel 'safe,' I'll not push it. I won't tell Erick, either."
  "Oh, he knows about this," she said with a wave. "He won't let me wear it out there, though. I don't like that, but then, I can also imagine some idiot grabbing for it if I had my hands full with food or drink. So... I grit my teeth and bear his rules."
  "Hmph," said Kenneth, then was quiet in thought. Finally he unfolded his arms and shrugged. "I suppose it's to bed, then."
  Mara was relieved that Kenneth had not noticed the small dagger she always kept in her boot. Nor had Erick, for that matter.

The Pauper Prince - part 2

The Pauper Prince
Chapter 2

  Mara and Erick were up early, as always, setting the chairs down in the dining room, unlocking windows, and so on. There wasn't much physical labor that Erick actually did, aside from most of the cooking, general hosting and of course, counting the money.  Everything else was laid at Mara's feet. Very tired and sore feet.

  "I'm not looking for an entertainer," said Erick. "You know that."
  "I do know that," she said. "Just offer him what I do."
  "And you know that you'll be sharing the scraps and space in the-"
  "-Storage room, yes," she finished. "Erick," she continued, setting down the last of the stools in the room. "I'm too tired to care anymore. This is too much work for one person."
  "Is it now?"
  "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, it is. If I... have to share scraps or squeeze another cot in the room, so be it. I'm not old, and I'm not weak." She said the last word as though it were the most offensive thing she had ever heard. "I'm strong, as my father raised me to be. And this work tires me."
  Erick sniffed. "Have it your way, then."

  Mara was in the kitchen, preparing the cooking pots for the day's meals, and tried not to listen to the muffled conversation of Erick and the minstrel. She remembered that she had left his bowl in the room the night before, though. Something else to clean up for a guest. Just then the muffled voices stopped, and Erick appeared with the minstrel.
  "Mara," he said. "You've met Kenneth. He's agreed to work here."
  "I am pleased and honored to work here," said Kenneth. "It's not singing, but it's honest work.  Thank you so much, my goo... uh, Erick."
  "Don't thank me," said Erick.
  Oh, no...
  "Thank her," he continued. "She convinced me to hire you."
  Kenneth smiled that broad smile of his. "Truly?" he said. "Another kindness to repay."
  "What's that?"
  "Nothing, Erick," she said, "It's... nothing."
  "So be it," said Erick. "Well:  show him what to do, then!"

  She showed him. And no matter what she showed him, Kenneth acted like the ever-increasing list of tasks was some exciting adventure for him, as though laundry, cleaning, cooking, scrubbing, hauling, running errands and emptying pisspots were every boy's dream. All right, not the pisspots. Even his face fell at the thought of collecting all of them for an aromatic trip to the sewage hole. But whatever she showed him, he insisted without hesitation that he was willing and able to do it.
  At least he was true to his word, that first day, anyway. In spite of a strained voice, she sometimes heard him humming to himself as he went about the new chores, and did not show offense when she corrected him from time to time. This was unusual for a man to a woman. It was good that he was a quick learner. It was also good that very little learning was required for most of the chores. Just a good constitution and a strong back, especially when carrying the filled water jugs from the town's well. It had been Mara's job to fill the inn's half-dozen jugs and carry them back without benefit of a cart or wheelbarrow. And although she was the one who had convinced Erick to take on another worker, she resisted Kenneth's assistance with the jugs. Anything that would indicate she was of the weaker sex, such as being unable to carry heavy things, she was loathe to relinquish. Kenneth was loathe to shirk any of his new duties, either, but stepped aside on this matter, for now. It was only his first day, after all.

  Two surprises awaited Kenneth at the end of the day: one was that his muscles ached more than he could remember them aching before, and two was that they were not offered a free, and most importantly, full meal for a hard day's work. Erick had promised "all the scraps you can eat," but until now, Kenneth had not grasped what that really meant. For one person there had been enough collected throughout the day, but for two? Perhaps not quite enough. And so he and Mara sat at an empty table, combining their findings of the day. His instinct was to offer it all to her, but after so many days of near-starvation out there, his instincts were in danger of being overwhelmed.
  No, he thought, fighting his way back to humanity. These are not thoughts for the woman who has shown no fewer than two great kindnesses, and to a stranger.
  Erick came to the table and slapped coins down before them. Mara slid out a hand and took half of them without looking. Her eyes were always on the food.
  "Welcome to your first day as a waged man," said Erick. "You've done well," then turned to walk away.
  "Wait," said Kenneth. "Erick? I noticed earlier that there is a full meal left in the pots."
  "That will be saved for the morning."
  Kenneth pushed his coins towards Erick. "Unless I buy it now."
  "...That's your day's wage, son," said Erick. Mara looked up at Kenneth and frowned. If he had been looking at her, he would have seen her slightly shaking her head.
  "I choose to use it to fill my belly tonight."
  Erick snatched back the coins in case Kenneth was in danger of changing his mind. "As you wish. A full meal, coming up."
  Kenneth sighed to himself, then met Mara's perplexed gaze.
  "What?"
  She looked back at the scraps. "Nothing," she said. "I'm saving my wages, is all."
  "He's very clever, you know," said Kenneth. "Only paying us enough to use it to feed ourselves. I don't agree with it, but will live with that for now."
  "Keep your voice down," she whispered. "You just started here, you know."
  "You're right," he said, sighing again. "Again, you save my life," he added with a wink.
  "Stop that," she muttered. "I'm not 'saving your life' or being a 'good woman' or... I'm just tired."
  "And hungry."
  "That, too."
  Eventually Erick was back, with a plate of the final meal, and set it down for Kenneth.
  "Ah!" said Kenneth, pulling it closer. "Thank you, Erick!"
  "You'll be cleaning the dishes yourself, now."
  "Of course.  Er..." Kenneth started. Erick stopped and looked back only a little. "I don't suppose we have any utensils?"
  "Utensils?" said Erick. "Are you talking about forks and spoons?"
  "I thought we had some."
  "'We' don't," said Erick. "Customers only. Your fingers are good enough. Remember to finish cleaning and locking up, you two." Then he left for his room and shut the door.
  "You expected utensils?" she said.
  "Er... I thought he might allow us to use them, that's all," said Kenneth, and then proceeded to transfer half of his food onto Mara's plate.
  "Hey - what are you doing?" she said.
  "Repaying a kindness," he said. "I don't like being in debt, either."
  "I told you, you don't owe m-"
  "So you say," he said. "But it was still a debt, in my eyes.  But - if you're not hungry," he added, and reached for her plate. She yanked it back and all but covered it with her whole body.  Kenneth paused, then smiled. "Dear lady, it was in jest," he said. "What kind of a man would I be to steal from you?"
  "I don't know," she said with a shrug. "Most of the ones I've known?"
  "Surely not."
  "Surely... yes."
  She ate silently for the next few minutes, only partly aware that he was watching her and not eating his own half-meal. Then he reached out a hand and touched one of hers. She started and pulled it away.
  "No!" she said emphatically enough to startle him. "Don't touch me."
  "I... Forgive me," he said. "I was only trying to... show a kindness. But you're right: that was too forward of me. It'll not happen again."
  "Father told me," she said, "Never to let a man touch me. You hear?"
  "I hear, I hear," he said. "It'll not happen again."
  She said nothing, but resumed eating. Years of hunger had taught her to eat quickly, giving no one else a chance to steal any.  In her mind she knew that Kenneth would not steal from her, but in her heart, this was not yet learned.  Still...
  "I suppose I should thank you," she said finally. Kenneth had the last of his meal in his mouth, and hurried to chew and swallow it.
  "For what?"
  "For sharing this. Your food."
  "Oh. The pleasure is mine," he said. "And I realized:  last night. You didn't buy the meal you brought me, did you?"
  "No," she said. "It was whatever we had left. Uh, the scraps, like tonight, I mean. Leftovers."
  "Your leftovers."
  "Well, there was," she said, using her finger to collect the last specks of food on her plate, "More last night than tonight. I mean, before you bought that."
  "Still-"
  "Kenneth," she said, avoiding his gaze. "I said, don't make it... more than it was. It was just... I felt-- bad for you. That's all."
  "Fair enough," he said, and another silence followed. "Shall we finish off the chores, then?"

******************

  Kenneth was duly reminded of the dangers of lighting their candle without checking the flour. The last thing he needed on his first day of work was to blow up himself and his new friend. Erick would never let him live that  down. But now there was a logistical problem to solve: there was room for two cots in the storage room, but only just. They would need to be squeezed right beside each other, leaving no room for either of them to move much, if at all.  And it was just dumb luck that another bed sheet was found for Kenneth.  He would be covered, at least, if not kept much warmer.
  "I'm missing that room behind us already," said Kenneth.
  "Well, you can't afford that, too, so this is it."
  "Yes, I understand," he said. "Yet I'm a bit concerned."
  "Why?"
  "Well, it's..." he began, "That is, you've made it very clear that you won't abide being 'touched,' but we have to keep these cots so close to each other that..."
  "Ah," she said, rubbing an arm, "Well... it's unfortunate, but-"
  "Wait; I know!" said Kenneth, and he started grabbing one of the tall shelves. "I think we could just-"
  "What are you doing?"
  "I think we could reposition some of the shelves in here to make more room-"
  "Wait, wait, no, no-"
  "No, really.  See?  Here, push on the other side and-"
  "No, no, stop it-"
  "It'll only take a moment-"
  "STOP IT!" she shouted, then clamped her hands over her mouth.
  "Please, Mara, I'm only trying to help our situation," said Kenneth, who had at least stopped tugging at the shelves.  And then Erick's voice behind him made him jump.
  "Is there a problem?"
  "Wha-!  Er... No, no, Erick," said Kenneth. "Please forgive me if you were disturbed."
  "Are you trying to rearrange the room?"
  "Uh... no, not anymore," said Kenneth, pushing the shelf back. "We were just trying to make more room in here.  For the cots."
  "No, you'll have to leave the shelves alone," said Erick. "You two can stay awake all night if it suits you, but no more noise."
  "I'm not staying awake all night!" Mara said. "I'm sleeping right now!"
  "Uh..." said Kenneth, glancing back at her. "Yes, we won't be up all night. Again, we'll not disturb anyone.  Good night, Erick."
  Erick looked at Mara as if for assurance. She nodded, and, satisfied that she was unthreatened, Erick nodded to Kenneth. "Good night," he said, and returned to his room, but more slowly than usual.
  Kenneth sighed and turned back to Mara. "That was kind of him to show concern for you."
  "What concern?"
  "Well, he came here because you cried out," said Kenneth. This only puzzled her. "To see if you were unharmed? To...? Never mind. This still leaves us with how to arrange the cots so that-"
  "You know, it doesn't matter," she said. "I'm too tired for this. Touch me all you like."
  Kenneth cocked an eyebrow at that, but Mara had turned away to arrange the sheet for her cot.  Then she spun around, full of distress.
  "Ah, I can't believe I-!" she said. "I didn't mean-! No, don't touch me all you like! Don't-"
  "Mara," said Kenneth in as soothing a voice as he could manage, "Dear, sweet Mara, I know what you meant. I swear I will do nothing to make you think that I'm taking advantage. If I must sleep on the floor to prove my word, I shall."
  "No," she said, calming herself. "Forgive me. I'm being sssstupid," she stammered, struggling to get that last word out. "Don't sleep on the floor.  It's not 'touching,' it's just... how we have to sleep."
  With a shared sigh the two of them climbed onto their respective hard, cool cots and struggled a bit to keep their sheets from getting tangled. Kenneth was the closest to the candle, so he blew it out and wrapped himself up as tightly as he could.
  There was a minute of silence.  Then: "Kenneth," Mara murmured.
  "Hm?"
  "I'm not 'dear' or 'sweet,'" she said.
  "If you wish," he whispered. "But neither are you 'stupid.'  Good night."

*******************

  Kenneth bought his dinner again with his day's wages, and again insisted on sharing it with Mara. Although appreciative of the extra food, she was also concerned.
  "You spend your money every day, and you'll never have any for later."
  "I can't help that I'm so hungry," said Kenneth. "And perhaps someday he'll raise our wages so I can save at least some of it. But you: you seem very careful to keep your money. Here, it's not easy. I admire that."
  "Well, I learned very quickly that-" she started, and then leaned over to check that Erick's door was shut, "That I need extra money whenever I travel."
  "Travel? To where?"
  "Wherever the work is," she said. Kenneth was puzzled.
  "I thought work was right here."
  "I meant better work," she said. "Like where war has broken out."
  "Where wa-?  I don't think I understand," said Kenneth.
  "Never mind," she said.
  "War is a regrettable thing. I'm glad this kingdom has been at peace for as long as it has."
  "It doesn't matter," she said. "I'm saying nothing of consequence. But back to our wages: I know it's difficult, but you should resist the urge to spend your money as soon as you get it. Believe me, I struggle against the urge every day. But I feel better knowing that I have something extra."
  "It sounds like you have a plan for it," he said.
  "I wouldn't say that, exactly," she said. "I just... I just like the idea that, perhaps, if I live long enough - and I'm not saying it's a certainty - but if it is, that I could still be able to pay for things. That is, even if I'm too old to work. I wouldn't have to depend on anyone."
  "...My goodness," he said.
  "You're about to laugh, I know, or say something to mock me," she said. "Well, I've heard all-"
  "Do you hear me laughing? I think that's remarkable," he said. "In fact, you've... All right, you've inspired me. Starting tomorrow, I'll start saving my wages and live on our scraps."
  "Hmph," she said. "I'll hold you to it, then."

*******************

  "I told you to get him out of bed!" said Erick. Mara ran from the storage room and partly shut the door. From outside the room, Kenneth could be heard dry-heaving.
  "He's too ill to get out of bed!" she said. "He needs water or any other liquid we can get him. And another bucket!"
  "Nonsense. Were you both drinking last night?" said Erick. "If you won't pull him out, I will."
  "We were not drinking! Something's made him ill. Remember that he had scraps last night and didn't buy anything. Maybe he's ill from that."
  "Are you saying my food made him ill?"
  "Does it matter why he's ill?" she said. "Please, Erick: let him rest today, and let me bring him some water and food."
  Erick did not answer, but stood in the doorway and stared at Kenneth. Kenneth's color was particularly unpleasant, a mix of light flesh, grey and perhaps green, but it was difficult to confirm the last. He lay on his side on the cot, his back to the wall, visibly shaking. Mara had combined both of their sheets and covered him. Next to Kenneth was a bucket used to collect his vomit. Unbeknowst to Erick both Kenneth and Mara had been up all night: Kenneth from illness, and Mara quietly leaving the room repeatedly to bring him water, which he had difficulty keeping down.  She had also found a somewhat clean rag that she had been wetting and laying over his forehead.
  "You do look quite a sight," said Erick. "Very well; rest today, but you forfeit your wages."
  "Erick... I would like to be able to work," said Kenneth, in a voice so weak it seemed to take all his strength, "But I fear that I lack the strength." Then he convulsed and leaned over the bucket to vomit, but only dry-heaved some more.  Mara helped him lay onto his back and placed the wet cloth over his forehead again. Then she pulled up the covers to his shoulders.
  "Try to rest," she whispered. "I'll bring more water and food as I'm able."
  "Uhhhh, no food," he groaned.
  "You need it," she said. "You... Just try to eat. I'll be back as soon as I can."
  She left quietly and shut the door almost all the way.
  "I'll see if there's medicine when I get our other supplies," she said, pulling on the various bags she used for errands.
  "What do you mean?"
  "An apothecary," she said. "I should see an apothecary, and see if he has medicine for Kenneth."
  "And who'll pay for that medicine?"
  "Who--? Do you want him to die?" said Mara. "Is that it?"
  "Well, why is he ill? Were you both drinking? Are you saying it's from my food?"
  "I don't know why he's ill," she said. "But not from drinking, I can say that. Do I seem hung over to you? He's been up all night, spewing his guts out. I've been up all night, trying to help him. I'm exhausted before the day has begun."
  After an angry silence, Erick sighed and then fished out extra coins from his purse. He slapped them onto the counter. "Here," he said. "Get him whatever this will buy."

******************

  Mara's day was spent seeing to the needs of the guests and trying to see to the needs of her coworker. Erick himself actually emptied out and cleaned Kenneth's vomit bucket earlier that morning.  It was after the last guest had finished his midday meal and lumbered back upstairs for a nap that Mara had the chance to check on Kenneth. She brought a pitcher of water, tack bread and a bowl of something with a comforting smell.  He was on his back like before, his eyes closed, breathing heavily but at least clearly.  She checked the bucket and saw that it was empty.  There was another pitcher beside the bucket, half full of water.  She set down her supplies on one of the shelves.
  "Are you awake?" she whispered.
  He took a deep breath. "Yes," he whispered, his eyes still closed. She removed the cloth from his forehead and felt it.
  "I'm not sure, but I think your fever might have broken.  You don't seem to be shaking. Are you still shaking?"
  "Uhhhh," he groaned. "No, I don't think so. No."
  "Good, very good." She picked up the first pitcher and poured some of its water over the cloth, wrung it out a little, and put it back on his forehead.
  "I don't think I need this," he said weakly, and tried to remove it.
  "Yes, you do," she said. "It's something I learned not long ago, and it's helped me before, too. If something works, then I do it."
  Kenneth relaxed and let his arm drop. His eyes remained closed. "You're too good to me," he whispered.
  "Quiet," she said. "Try to keep drinking. Are you able to hold down any water or food? I don't see anything new in the bucket."
  "I don't know," he said. "I haven't tried drinking anything."
  Mara sighed in frustration. "Don't be stupid," she said.
  "Whaaaat? Didjoo call me-?"
  "I'm going to help you up," she said. "Come on." At first it was like wrestling with a drunkard in a dead weight, but eventually Kenneth came to his senses and struggled into a sitting position. He seemed unsteady enough at first to fall right back over, but then seemed to stabilize. Mara watched him a few more moments, then brought the bowl and tack bread over to him.
  "Here," she said. "This is chicken soup. Some bread, too. It's hard, so you should dip it into the soup first."
  "I didn't know we had chicken soup," he said. "I like it. It was my very favorite meal as a child."
  "Not from here," she said. "I bought it from - I got it from somewhere else. Also, Erick paid for some herbs from the apothecary (if you can believe that). I mixed them into the soup to make it easier. Slowly - sip it first. Make sure you can keep it down."
  "Mara!" Erick called from outside. She grunted quietly.
  "Coming!" she called back. "Um... Keep eating that," she said to Kenneth. "Slowly. I have to go back to work. If you need anything, just vomit."
  "Ha ha," groaned Kenneth sarcastically. "I should be fine in a few minutes. I should be working."
  "No," she said, pointing at him emphatically. "Do not leave the room. Eat and rest.  Or I'll kill you."
  "Yes, m'lady."

*******************

  "I think it was the little bit of fish, or the little bit of pork, that I had last night," said Kenneth, his head propped onto his hand. "Or perhaps some of both." By the end of the day he had regained enough strength to stagger from the storage room and sit with Mara as she ate her scraps of the day. He did this in spite of her protests to keep resting and drinking water.
  "I guess I didn't have either, then," she said. "Who knows what this stuff used to be before we get it? Anyway, I don't know if you were awake enough at the time, but your wages were forfeited because you couldn't work."
  "Of course they were."
  "I'm sorry," she said. "The day after you promise to eat only our scraps, you get ill. I suppose you could blame me for that."
  "I'm not certain what kind of thinking needs to be employed to come to that conclusion," said Kenneth, his head still supported solely by his right arm.
  "You know what I mean," she said. "If... It's your money. Of course you're free to do with it as you wish. I won't try anymore to tell you what to do with it."
  Kenneth had no answer for her to that. She had offered him some of tonight's scraps, but when that almost brought on another convulsion, she quickly withdrew it. In fact she was wary of even trying any herself, but ultimately had no choice. Today had been a particularly exhausting day.
  "Mara," Kenneth murmured after a long silence. "I understand and respect what you've said about 'being touched,' but I have a request." He slowly lifted his head until almost sitting up straight, if not for the lingering weakness.
  "What do you mean?"
  "I mean," he said, "I was wondering if you might allow me to... hold your hand. Even if only briefly."
  "...Why?"
  "I'm... very grateful to you," he said. "I was hoping you might allow me to show it."
  "How is holding my hand showing gratitude? And you don't need to, anyway. You just said you were grateful. That's enough."
  "I suppose it should be," he sighed. "It's just... it would give me comfort. It's something my mother always did for us when..." His voice trailed off. If the light were better, Mara might have seen his eyes moistening, just a bit. "Never mind," he said with a wave. "Of course you're not my mother. I'm being silly."
  She said nothing, but finished chewing and swallowing the last of her meal. Then she squeezed her right hand nervously before slowly moving it close enough for Kenneth to reach. But his eyes were closed again, so she had to muster the courage to clear her throat in an obvious way.  He opened his eyes lazily.
  No words. Only a small smile as he accepted her gesture, and gently took her right hand into his left. After a few moments he began to move his thumb slowly back and forth on the top of her hand. They were not meeting gazes at all; she stared at a distant spot on the floor while he stared at a wall. Then he broke the spell by speaking.
  "Are you sure you're not an angel?" he murmured. With a sigh Mara pulled her hand back.
  "Not that again," she said, and stood and brought her plate back to the kitchen. This time Kenneth said and did nothing to stop her, but kept to his thoughts.

The Pauper Prince (aka, the return of Mara Stories) - part 1

Foreword:

It's been many years since I've written anything about my first published character, Mara (pronounce Mare-uh, thankyouverymuch).  The last thing I wrote that included her and her best friend Jackie was some Buffy the Vampire Slayer fanfiction during Buffy's second or third season, so you know it was a while ago.  If you never watched the show, I mean circa 1998/9.

But fear not: this is not a fanfiction, but an original Mara story, but not in the same canon as Mara Prime, which I'd described here. I've fleshed out the Medieval Mara stuff enough that it might take writing it down to get it out of my head. Not that I'm disliking it being in there. This is nothing deep, but more along the lines of a romantic fairy tale, albeit with no supernatural leanings. Considering that every other Mara story I've ever written or thought of includes her becoming a vampire, Jedi or superhero, that's saying something.  Maybe it's more like the movie Ever After, which I don't recall ever watching, but I hear that it's a Cinderella story minus any fairy godmothers. The Pauper Prince is a fairy tale in the sense that it's not set in historical Europe, but the Europe-like world of such stories. This is so I don't have to do any research. I am a very lazy person about that.

This isn't a short story, either. It's going to be an online book, with chapters 'n' everything, so I hope that you have the patience for it. It's online (and thus free!) because I wouldn't expect this to sell. Oh, sure, fairy tales are Back! and Hotter than ever! but this is more like a 3-person play in a handful of settings than a grand epic of knights, princesses, ogres and knightly ogre princesses (Yes, I like all of the Shrek movies and specials. And stage play. No apologies!!!).  I looooooves me some dialogue. What can I say.

I'm not going to promise surprises or blow-your-mind plot twists, either. Honestly, I'm a fan of a lot of conventional tropes, and just assume that you are, too, so I'm assuming that you'll figure out any "twist" or even the main plot points - maybe even before I do!  I mean, look at the title: the main twist is right there. What I'm hoping is that you'll enjoy the journey.  And if you stick around to the bitter end, I'll include Deleted Scenes. There'll be descriptions of how certain events or conversations were going to play out, but didn't stick.  When I think of stories, I replay "scenes" over and over in my head, so there are a lot of variations to them. Yay, a book with DVD special features!

Okay, then, enough about me. Please read and enjoy the first written Mara story in close to fourteen years, yayyyy....?  {{crickets}}

**********************

The Pauper Prince
Chapter 1

A young, lanky, and dark-haired would-be minstrel arrived late morning in the town of Allcourt of the county of Kingsbrook of the kingdom of Gildern with a lute on his back, a spring in his step, a hum in his throat, and no coins in his purse.  He had the attitude of a young man leaving home for the first time to make his own way: confident, apprehensive, eager and anxious.  Not bad for a start.  He had heard the people of Allcourt were friendly enough.  Whether or not they were generous, too, would soon be determined. They had better be if his purse was to be fed, and by proxy, him, when he had enough for food and drink.

The best way to find out which spot would bring the most listeners - and donations - would be through trial-and-error, he decided, and stopped, pulled out his lute, set down his wooden bowl, tugged down the brim of his cap, and began the first of the eight songs that he knew by heart.  Like most songs of his time, they were ballads about love, good and bad, true and false, lasting and tragic, serious and comical.  One of each for the eight songs that he knew.

As he played, some people lingered, a child or two stopped, more people slowed down but did not stop, and others paid him no mind.  So far nobody tossed a coin into his bowl, but the day had just begun.

Across the way, Erick, the owner of the inn Eleanor Elaine, paused in his work when he heard the minstrel playing outside.  After a short time he shrugged and continued his duties.  Nothing worth going outside for.  His worker, Mara, came downstairs with a pile of dirty bed sheets and spent candles.  Customers who paid extra got candles; the others slept in total darkness.  She set the candles on the bar and turned to take the sheets outside for laundry.  Erick collected the candle stubs so he could melt them, with other remnants, into new candles.  Whatever saved a copper.

From upstairs, closer to the windows, the minstrel could be heard a little better.  Only then did Mara notice any of his noise.  She paused and listened just long enough to see if she could recognize the song.  No such luck.  Hopefully he wasn't one of those minstrels who tried to get work inside the inn as a singer.  First, Erick wasn't about to hire an entertainer, and Second, Mara had yet to convince him to hire another innworker, period.  Erick at least concurred that the work was hard, but hard work was nothing to be afraid of, and it wasn't enough to warrant hiring another employee, etc etc.  Of course, if she were willing to share the table scraps - her only source of food there - and fit another cot inside of the dry goods storage, then he'd consider it.  Erick was not the most generous employer, but he was one of the few willing to hire a woman, and possibly the only one willing to leave his female employee "alone," if that meaning is clear.

He also begrudgingly accepted her choice of clothing, which could be described as pseudo-feminine at best. No dresses or skirts or even bodices for her; she made do with a small leather vest over a worn, light-blue shirt, and would be wearing leggings, a belt and boots, but Erick also had her wrap a large bit of fabric around her waist for a makeshift skirt. The most "arranging" she did with her long, honey-colored hair was to tie it back in a tail to keep it off her face while working. Mara was mildly grateful for not being made to fancy herself up.  On the other hand, twelve hours each day of cleaning rooms, laundry, cooking, waiting on tables, cleaning the dining space, emptying pisspots, running errands, and whatever else Erick needed that day, left her exhausted each night, which threatened to dispel any lingering gratitude.

After hanging up the laundry to dry, it was time for Mara to buy the day-old bread from down the road.  Also the day-old vegetables, eggs, meats and other "mature" ingredients.  Erick's most common meals were stews and soups, so no need to pay for the fresh stuff.  She was allowed to buy fresh(er) meat and fish for the roasts, though.  The minstrel was playing something that sounded like whatever he'd been playing before.  He was smiling as he played, wandering a little bit but remaining in the general area.  Mara kept her eyes to herself as always when she went out in public, but accidentally glanced his way.  He caught her glance, smiled more broadly, played and sang more loudly, and strolled her way as she passed, but the actions were not reciprocated.  There was work to be done and she had no time to frolic with street musicians.

*********************

The end of the day was much like any other: Mara and Erick put up the chairs in the dining area. Mara swept while Erick put all the dishes into the soaking tub for Mara to get to later; this was after she'd taken the scraps for her bowl .  Then she went outside to trim the lanterns lining the inn. The minstrel had stopped playing long before and had gone - somewhere - for the night.  Probably home.  And just as well, because the night was chillier than usual.  For that Mara worked more quickly than usual.  Back inside so Erick could lock the front door.  Finally he went into his own room while she finished cleaning off the dishes and setting them to dry for the next day.

She took her bowl of scraps into the dry storage room.  Before bringing in her candle, she checked to make sure that there was no flour in the air or outside of its container.  Satisfied that she was safe from a flash fire or explosion, she sat on the edge of her cot, licked the bowl clean, blew out the candle, and pulled the blankets over her.  The cot was hard and the room cool, but she had slept in much worse places before, many times.

*********************

The minstrel surprised Erick the next morning by being at the door as soon as Erick unlocked and opened it.
"Pardon me, my good man," said the minstrel, bowing slightly. "I hope that I didn't startle you.  But if you're open for business, might I come in for a morning draught and a morsel?"
  "...W-Yes, of course, my good man," said Erick, and let him in.  The minstrel went to a table in the corner and set down his lute.  His cap was still on, brim pulled low.
  "What can I get you?"
  The minstrel pulled out three coppers. "What can I get with this?" he asked.
"Uhhh.... some of yesterday's stew, perhaps?"
  "That would do nicely."
  "Very well.  MARA!" said Erick, startling the minstrel. A moment later she thumped-thumped-thumped her way downstairs and saw right away that there was a customer. "He'll have yesterday's stew," said Erick.
  "Stew?" she said. "But..." then whispered, "We're out from last night. There was half a bowl at best. I had to eat something."
  The minstrel forced a smile. "I don't want to be the cause of any trouble. A draught, then?"
  "Get him a draught, then," said Erick.
  Mara left to fetch the breakfast beer.  The minstrel kept Erick's attention and gestured to his lute. "My good man," he said, "I don't suppose you saw or heard my playing yesterday?"
  "Uhhhh, yes, we did."
  "Ah, good. And, if you happened to enjoy it, perhaps your customers might enjoy-"
  "No."
  "I'm...sorry?"
  "No to hiring you to entertain my customers. If that's what you were going to ask."
  Mara's back was turned to them both, allowing her to indulge in a wicked smile.
  "I... Yes, actually," said the minstrel. "But... I assure you from experience that many diners enjoy a good entertainment.  It makes the meal more pleasant."
  Erick sighed. "Perhaps some other inn in town, but not here. I've got food, drink and rooms, and that's enough for the people who stay here.  Enjoy your draught," he added as Mara brought over the drink.
  "Two coppers," she said before setting it down. The minstrel pushed over two of his three coins, then took the tankard, mimed a toast, and took a sip.  He grimaced at the taste, but forced a smile and kept sipping.
  "Let us know if you need anything else," she said flatly and started to leave.
  "My good lady," he said, "Perhaps you could sit with me for a moment.  Some company?"
  She didn't need to look to Erick for his approval or lack thereof; hearing him clear his throat from the other room was sufficient. "Your pardon," she said, "But I have much work to do. Enjoy the drink."
  The minstrel tried to be discreet about watching her walk away.  He continued sipping at the drink and ignoring the growls of his stomach.  There was, of course, much work for him to do that day, whether he had the voice for it or not.

*********************

  Once a week the butcher had lamb on sale, which Mara bought for Erick along with the other meats.  She made a lamb stew that some of the inn's regulars liked very much. For her it was a two-edged sword: a popular meal brought more customers and more orders, and also decreased the chance of any proper leftovers.  Mara did like her own stew, after all.  Erick couldn't make it because she wouldn't share the recipe, and also because she "cheated" and bought fresher ingredients than he would have liked. Which meant that on lamb stew days, she paid the difference out of pocket.  Fortunately her salary of three coppers a day was usually saved for another day.  She could always buy her own meals rather than fight for scraps, but she did that only once a week, again, to save money.  This was not a place she wanted to work at forever.  Erick had no heirs, so if she were inclined, she could work towards securing a chance to inherit the inn, most likely by wooing him into a marriage or some other partnership.  But she was not inclined.  Mara was saving her money to help her survive the next time she needed to travel and seek other employment.  She was not a native to Allcourt, Kingsbrook or Gildern and had not set roots in any land for more than a year at a time.  A consequence of how she had been raised.

  Near-closing time for the inn.  Mara was outside trimming the lights as always and did not notice someone approaching the front doors.  She did hear Erick being startled and then speaking to someone in muffled tones.  Then he called to her to hurry up and see to their "last customer of the night."

  By now the droning of the minstrel outside had become that: droning, so she had not been thinking about him, and had almost forgotten his previous visit a few days earlier.  It was just as well; the people of Allcourt had not been generous to him.  His clothes still had a look and smell of newness to them, but were already showing wear and tear.  For a moment she was slightly impressed that he was actually as tall as she, since few men of the time even reached 6' 1", let alone surpassed it.  It turns out that his posture betrayed his real height.  It was as if in barely a week's time he had been beaten down and could scarce take the weight of the world anymore.  There seemed to be a new gauntness to the face and a sullenness to the eyes that actually made her feel a slight amount of pity. The fool, thinking he could sing a living here, she thought.
  "He's taking the back room," said Erick, interrupting her thoughts.
  "...Very well," she said. "And... will he have anything to eat?" Ahhh, why did I ask that??  Not the stew, not the-
  "Oh, I'd love a-" said the minstrel.
  "He only has enough for the room," said Erick. "Sorry, my good man."  Phew!
  "Of... course," said the minstrel. "I've had to decide each day if I would eat, or sleep. Tonight, I will sleep." Now she noticed that his voice was hoarse, too. He was rubbing his fingers a bit, as well, as though all the lute playing had made them sore. Even worse for trying to make a living as a musician.
  The back room was the smallest and cheapest room.  Usually the most drunken customers got it, if they'd spent most of their money on food and drink, and had no more than the four coppers needed for the room.  It was behind the dry storage room and facing the back of the inn.  The "view" consisted of the alley and smelled vaguely like the hole where Mara dumped the contents of the pisspots and old cleaning water.  One good thing about Allcourt is that it did have what some might refer to as modern conveniences, such as sewers,  well-maintained roads and bridges and generally clean water wells.
  The minstrel was hardly a drunkard; he was just in a poor situation, emphasis on "poor."  Nevertheless, he sighed relievedly at the sight of the bed and set down his belongings.  It was easy to tell that the bed was shorter than he, so there would be no stretching out tonight. But it was at least warmer and dryer in here than outside.
  "Thank you, my good woman," he said. "I think I might actually sleep tonight."
  "Oh... Well, I hope that you do sleep well," she said. "Ah, should I replace your candle?"
  He looked at the candle remnant on the room's small table, then shook his head. "Nay, good woman. I'm told that a new candle costs extra, and I can only afford the room itself. So... I must bid you good night, then."
  "Very well," she said. "Good night."
  Back to the rest of the chores before her own bedtime: soaking the dishes, cleaning the food containers and checking all doors and windows. She had made just a little bit more than usual of the lamb stew, but had lost track of how much had been sold. Pleasepleaseplease be at least a bowl's worth! It was to her relief that she found enough for just over a full bowl. Her aching legs and back would thank her for the extra fuel.

  Erick had retired to his room to balance the day's finances, which Mara was convinced was his favorite "chore." She checked the doors and windows in the front area, then filled her first bowl. And followed the routine of making sure that no stray flour in the storage room would catch fire and kill her, but this time she simply stared at her candle without lighting it. Half of it was left. She could use one of the reconstituted candles - one she had remelted and reshaped herself, in fact.
  With a sigh she went back to the pot of stew and stared at the bottom, then at her bowl, and alternated a few times before taking another bowl and scraping out the rest of the stew into it. Then she compared the two bowls and traded some of their contents until they were as even as she could make then. And then took a moment to stare at the floor in thought before carrying them both to the storage room. There she retrieved her half-candle and matches for it.
  She had to knock, quietly all the while, several times before the minstrel finally opened it. He kept it at a peek's width until recognizing her, and then opened it all the way.
  "My good woman," he said. "Is there something wrong? Please tell me I don't have to leave."
  "Hm?" she said, a little startled that he was now standing at his full height. It turned out that it beat hers by at least two inches. "Um... no," she said quietly. "Not that I know of? I just... I-I thought you might be hungry. This is lamb stew."
  His face and shoulders fell. "Ohhhh," he said. "I have no money for food, only the bed. If I think of food tonight, I won't-"
  "It's not--" she said. "That is, you won't be charged. This is a portion that didn't sell. And a half-candle, in case you wanted light. You won't be charged for that, either."
  For some reason he just stood there, starting at her with an expression that she couldn't interpret.
  "Do you..." she said, "Want these?  Or not?"
  "I..." he said, "Good woman, of course!" then stepped aside and gestured into the room. He was thanking her over and over, but she was not responding, instead handing him one of the bowls and setting the candle down on the table. The first match was a good choice, and sputtered to life and brought light to the room.
  She turned to leave, but he was there, holding his bowl up and gently tapping hers like they were supposed to be toasting, or somesuch.  Her first instinct was to get closer to the door, just in case. This was her first instinct when interacting with any man: make sure an escape route was nearby.  The exception by now was Erick, who was too dull to fire any of her instincts.
  The minstrel smiled broadly. To her surprise Mara noticed that his smile was... nice to look at.  But then suddenly his face was buried in the bowl as he gulped down every drop hungrily and happily.  It was such a sight that she was too engrossed watching him to begin her own meal.
  "You were... very hungry, I see," she said.
  "Yes," he said, suddenly pensive. "Very.  This was delicious!  It's been a long time since I've had something this good."
  "Ah... Thank you," she said.
  "Why, did you make this? Not the owner?"
  "Right, I did," she said. "Um... Well, you said something before about deciding between a meal or a bed. So... I... thought you might like both."
  "Indeed. You're truly an angel, my good woman."
  "What?" she said, stifling a laugh at that. "Uh... Hardly. And why do you keep calling me 'good woman'? It doesn't suit me at all."
  "It's... a proper way to address strangers and acquaintances, nothing more," he said. "We've not been formally introduced, and even so, it wouldn't be appropriate to address a woman with familiarity.  And I assure you that it 'suits you' quite well.  You've shown me more kindness than anyone here has so far.  I am in your debt." He held out a hand and began to bow. Mara had no idea what he was trying to do, but shrank back at the thought of a debt of any kind.
  "Oh, no, no!" she said. "You... owe me nothing. No debts."
  "A kindness should be repaid-"
  "No. Please stop making this into... more than it is."
  "Please, I had no intention of upsetting you, dear lady," he said. "I'll say no more, then."
  "Good," she said, visibly relaxing. "I just don't like the idea of... That is, I wasn't trying to..." She sighed in frustration. "Forgive me, I'm unable to find the words."
  "That's... quite all right." His voice was still hoarse, but strangely soothing.
  "I-I should get back to my chores," she said, and started for the door.
  "Still? Does he never let you rest?"
  "Er... I didn't mean chores," she said. "I'm off to bed myself, that's all. I.. hope that you sleep well tonight... 'my good man.' "
  "Oh," he said, more sadly than she was able to notice. "I was hoping we might share our meal for a little while. But then, it appears that I've gulped mine down without waiting for you. That was rude of me. I hope you'll forgive me, dear lady."
  "Now I'm a 'dear lady'?" she said.  She paused at the door, but only turned enough for him to hear her. "You worry too much about being polite.  But good night."
  "Good night."
  She shut the door behind herself, leaving the minstrel to his thoughts.
  "Dear lady," he whispered.

Bucket Lists and other tragedies

I hear that "bucket lists" are supposed to be realistic goals that people hope to accomplish before dying.  They're meant to be calls to adventure, or something like that (blog title drop!), and inspire the list-makers to go out and... do... things!... stuff!... with their lives.

I have a bucket list that grows every now and then, but I wouldn't call it realistic.  Nor adventurous.  See, I have zero desire to do Extreme! Anything!, so.. parasailing over jets of flame while being strafed by a helicopter is not on my To-Do list.  I'm not saying it could never happen to me, only that I won't be seeking it out.

No, it's worse than that.  My bucket list is lopsided with celebrity encounters beyond paying for an autograph/photo at a convention, or a 1-second glimpse during a random encounter.  The weird part is that I don't read gossip magazines and fantasize off them.  I watch movies and TV shows and think, "I want to meet (some of) the people who are onscreen," compared to my sister who does read gossip magazines, but has no interest in meeting the people in them, nor even watching what they do.

Interactions with Celebs aren't the only items on my list, but probably more than should be for someone who has no connections at all to The Industry.  There's a lot of Disney stuff, too.  The latter might change in a few years after I lose interest in it.  Here's what I mean:

• Sing a duet with Seth MacFarlane.  I'm also a tenor, so we could probably do some Rat Pack thing.  But with all due respect, Seth, please: nothing from Guys and Dolls!
• Sing a duet with Kristen Chenoweth. I can fake being a soprano, but only for "What Is This Feeling?" from Wicked. I'll even let her sing Elphaba's part this time if she likes.
• Be a guest voice on Robot Chicken
• Family Guy, too.
• Art Time with Johnny Depp and his kids.  Any excuse to bring Super Sculpey to folks.  Of course they're probably too old by now and/or never cared about clay art.  What? It's not like we'd be talking about his movies; he never watches them, the putz!
• Hang out with Ben Affleck and talk about comic books until both our voices have gone hoarse and we've forgotten what day it is
• Or with Seth Green, if Ben's busy that day
• But not Kevin Smith.  Long story why
• A Disney cruise.  Too bad they cost a fortune and have to be booked about 2 years in advance.  Stupid rich Disney fans.  Why are there so many of you???
• Stand with my back to the mouth of a batcave near dusk, arms spread wide and eyes closed, and just let them fly past me in a magnificent swarm of leathery wings.
• Be a celebrity's best friend/confidante. Papparazzi and People would get nothing from me.
• Make my house and/or condo into my own version of Disneyland.  Each room will be a "land," knowwhatImsaying?
• Win the Megamillions jackpot or Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes.  Whatever will let me retire immediately and fulfill my destiny of becoming a completely useless misanthrope.
• That somebody of influence finds one or all of my books, reads it/them, likes it/them, and adapts it/them into movie(s).  And I don't mean somebody in charge of SyFy Channel Saturday night movies.
• Eat at Club 33 (another Disney reference. Sorry)
• Not die, therefore negating a bucket list

I'm probably supposed to have things like "Lose weight," "Fall in love," "Get married," and the like, but those are really low on my To-Do list.  Well, to be fair, I have been losing weight, but in a laid-back way, so it's not going on any motivational list.  It'll happen over time and there you are.

And notice that my celeb encounters have nothing to do with sex.  It's because I don't want to "do" any of them.  No lie: I'm not attracted to any actor, no matter how good-looking.  Also missing are things about traveling to exotic lands, saving the world, and curing cancer.  I prefer super comfy travel to help me get over the fact that I hate traveling and am not at home at the time.  That's why I have an entry like "Disney cruise" instead of "hike the Alps" or "single-handedly lead Haiti out of poverty."  I've also left off things that are practically inevitable, like "Get a new car" and "Shop at Costco more often."

There it is, until I can think of more things.  As you can see, a good chunk of the list consists of impossible dreams, i.e. things I could not actually arrange on my own.  See, I spend as little time in the real world as I can.

Money Fantasies and other Traumas

I can probably state with certainty that Golddigging has existed since human societies were formed, and will likely last as long as human societies do.

I fantasize a lot about being rich, because I'm a lazy turd who hates having to work for a living, but who hates having to worry about money even more.  But what I never fantasize about is marrying somebody for money.  This is due to my disinterest in getting married.  But I've mentioned that before.  And I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, entrepreneurial or business-savvy, which leaves me with the sole option of lotteries and/or the Publishers Clearing House sweepstake.  I don't buy anything from the latter, but do go to its website daily and "skip" my way through the pages and pages and pages of catalog items, until I get to the "Thanks for Entering!" screen.  There was one item I can recall purchasing from PCH, some 20+ years ago: a subscription to TV Guide. And that's it.

I suppose if some nerdy, asexual billionnaire inexplicably took a fancy to me, I'd consider panning for gold, but overall the world of the wealthy holds no fascination for me, other than the "has lots of money" part.  See, much like my weight-loss philosopy, my Magical Lottery Windfall philosophy is that I wouldn't change, to the best of my efforts.  I could afford to be lots and lots more generous, like to charities and treating people to stuff, but there's no way I'd change my wardrobe, hobbies, or interests.  I was thinking that I'd even keep my car, but I'd probably just sell it to a friend for a dollar, then buy some tree-hugging environmentalist kind of wondercar that runs on happy thoughts, because I could finally afford one.

I'd also get a 3-bedroom house, already built, and then probably solar panels or some other tree-hugging environmentalist shit like that.  My sensibilities already lie there; I just don't have the dough to indulge them.  Then I'd turn the inside into Disneyland.  Well, kind of.  Each room would be "themed" like the park is, minus thrill rides.  I'm going to be "theming" my rooms for the condo coming soon to a future near me, but not on the scale I'd like.

But God knows, and I do, too, that there would be one big consequence of living in Money-is-No-Object Land: I would become a useless human being.  Oh, I'd be hitting the Donate! button for lots of charities, but I'd be doing it from home.  Without being forced to interact with people because I still need a job in order to pay bills, I would quickly morph into an invisible person, only venturing out to get things I need (groceries) and not really talking to anyone.  I'd visit the Disney and other local amusement parks a LOT more often, but not to make new friends, only to amuse myself.  I wouldn't travel much more than I do now, which is as rarely as possible.  I just don't enjoy the experience of being away from home.  It doesn't help that I'm not an adventurous person at all.  I should be interested in visiting other lands and experiencing other cultures, languages and foods firsthand, but that's never been me.  My idea of camping is to pull into a luxury RV park in a fully-loaded motorhome.  When I travel, I want it to be so luxurious that I never want to return home... well, unless my home looks like the Haunted Mansion.  I can't afford that, so I don't travel much.  I don't even like skiing or snowboarding in local places like Lake Tahoe.  Too much effort!

Hey, I never said I was a "deep" person.

Singlehood - not a trauma this time

My posts tend to be very long and don't even bother having the courtesy of a funny LOLCat picture.  For that, I apologize.  But then, nobody reads this blog, so it's all moot.


I posted a(n incredibly) long post, by now deleted, called something like "I'll Never Marry" or "Why I'll Never Marry." Self-explanatory, anyway.  Nobody knows who I am, so I have to write posts a la "This is The Kind of Person I Am," and wanted to make it clear that perpetually single was one of my traits.


Then somebody at slate.com summed it for me (slightly edited): "I am content, happy...and so NOT inclined to share my space. I would never be able to accommodate a man's presence, make compromises."

The person who wrote it had been describing a life in a bad marriage before dating in her 50s, so I edited out the references to that.  I've never been in a relationship and, in my mid-40's, would consider it a huge upheaval in my life to even have a discussion about what kind of couch to get for the living room.  Never mind things like setting aside man-caves and whatnot.  Every millimeter of wherever I live is my woman-cave, and carefully planned as such.  Not that I'm a neat-freak.  Quite the opposite.  I'm a total slob who has little interest in changing my ways.  Imagine the "fun" I'd have with a man who had even the slightest interest in tidying up the kitchen counter or dining room table.  No jury would convict me if I killed the person who simply gathered up my piles of stuff and tossed it all, thinking I wouldn't notice.  It would be self-defense, no doubt.  I once "joked" to my mother that I'd consider living with a man, if he had no possessions.  She took me seriously and started explaining that people have possessions, and it's all about compromise and sharing and it's a good thing I have an iPad loaded with games.

Sex has never been an issue for me, per whichever post I wrote before, because I've never been interested in it.  My oldest sister reacted predictably to my declaration of asexuality: start asking me questions to determine its "cause," because nobody is asexual without there being some emotional or physical trauma.  Just ask anyone who isn't asexual.  It's totally obvious.

Do I worry about dying alone, my rotting carcass only discovered when the neighbors start smelling something that's kind of like a rotting carcass?  And then a funeral that nobody attends because nobody would know  whom to call?  I do ponder such things at times.  But then, most couples don't die at the exact same moment, so either way, one of us would be alone at the time.  And I'd prefer not finding a guy just so I have my funeral arrangements covered.  The in-between stuff wouldn't be worth it.

Anyway, that's so me:  find a few sentences to sum up my feelings exactly, then keep going for many paragraphs afterwards, as though I'm adding to it.  I'd just be the most irritating wife, wouldn't I??

Music and Other Childhood Traumas

I don't come from a musical family, at all.  We didn't sit around a piano during my childhood and bang out old folk songs or pop standards or even Christmas carols.  We didn't sing along with Mitch Miller.  We didn't write or re-purpose songs in order to Put on a Show in the old barn.... or the living room.  That was the childhood of my high school-era neighborhood buddies. I don't recall if anyone else but me (in my family) played a musical instrument, either.  I played drums for a brief time during junior and non-junior high school.  Ultimately I quit the drums because I had no place to play them quietly, they take up a lot of room, and I "moved on" to other interests.  I tend to do that in general, about every 5-10 years.  Also, in my high school, playing an instrument meant Marching Band.  I... did not enjoy Marching Band.  At all.  I hate to say it helped kill my interest in playing an instrument, but it did.

On my own I also played harmonica by ear.  Not a chromatic harmonica, but the smaller kind that are locked in to a particular key.  The reason I played by ear is that, to this day, I cannot read music.  Because of playing the drums, I know how long that notes are played and so can decipher the rhythm, but which letter of the alphabet the notes represent?  Hand to God, I still have to do the "Every Good Boy Does Fine" mnemonic EVERY. SINGLE. TIME I'm trying to figure out the treble clef notes, and "Good Boys Do Fine Always" for the bass.  Also, Apes Can Eat Grapes.  (They can!) I can sort of work out the key signatures, but don't even bother trying to explain minor and major keys to me.  {whoosh} over my head.

Growing up severely introverted, it did manifest in the stereotypical ways - ie, extreme shyness - especially when it came to anything resembling a public performance.  Like, talking to more than two people at a time.  To me, that counted as public speaking.

While forced to serve as a Girl Scout Brownie, the green-suited Girl Scouts did things like teach us songs, and then punish anyone not singing loudly enough by pulling her out of the crowd and making her sing it solo.  Rather than teach me to sing more loudly in the crowd to avoid the humiliation, it taught me to equate singing... with punishment.  A-yup.  It made me hate and fear singing.  And that's pretty much the sum of what I remember about Girl Scouts.  Well, there's another memory about making puppets out of sack-lunch paper bags, but at least that's not a traumatic memory.  Fortunately my mother didn't push the green uniform on me; only the brown hand-me-down.  On the other hand, I might have used the green clout to NOT punish the shy ones, but the rest of the time with them wouldn't have been worth it.  Plus, they have to sell those cookies {{shudder}}.  I'm not shuddering about the cookies themselves. It's just that I'm no salesperson by any stretch of the imagination, even for those things.

But enough GS-bashing.  By high school I had somewhat overcome my hatred, but not yet the fear, of singing thanks to the music-lovin' neighborhood family I mentioned earlier.  To a sibling, they all had musical talent and would do stuff like erupt into spontaneous jam sessions more than one would expect in the non-musical real world.  I don't mean unseen orchestras starting to play, but more organic.  Think "Hot Lunch Jam" from Fame.  But thanks to the childhood singing trauma, it was many years before I realized that I actually can carry a tune.  Or even want to in the first place.  In fact, it was years after getting my driver's license that I even mustered up the courage to sing by myself in my car.  Like for many folks, it started with singing along (shh! quietly!) with the radio or tape cassettes (this was back in ancient times.  I grew up with 4-tracks but never sang along with them).  Then over many years' time I started singing more loudly in the car, and then started murmuring songs at home without the roar of traffic in the background, and so on.

One thing about most of the songs that I liked (and still like!) best is that the leads are guys.  I've been an amateur mimic all my life, so I sang along as best as I could in the singer's voice.  Some voices were and are easier for me to imitate than others.  Since I'm a chick, this meant spending the better part of 30 years pushing my voice into the tenor and - I shall dare to dream! - baritone range.  Baritone as in Len Cariou on the Sweeney Todd soundtrack (Take that, Mitch Miller!).  I won't claim to hit his lowest notes, but I can meet the octave most of the way.  It helps that I started with a kinda-sorta deep voice.  I stopped correcting people on the phone years ago when they called me "sir."  By now, Danny Elfman is where my comfortable range and timber lies.

Over time I've become admittedly proud of being able to hit low notes ({{sigh}}, yes, for a woman) and have entertained odd notions like being in an all-chick a capella group, as the "bass" singer, of course.  I haven't done this because I don't know other singers, let alone ones who want to sing a capella.  The downside, if you think it is one, to all this tenor-ing is that I've neglected my alto/soprano voice almost entirely, to the point where most high notes make my voice crack like Peter Brady in puberty, or when not cracking, sound like a falsetto guy.  Even songs I enjoy that are sung by altos and/or sopranos, I drop an octave or two when singing along, else the results are... disappointing.  There are some exceptions, but not many.

Before I go on, I should mention that another downside to having clammed up, musically, all these years is that I have zero lung power.  No "breathe through ze diaphragm!" lessons had I, so you're going to have a really long wait for my power ballad album... and then be disappointed by it.

Now for the modern world.  I've been churchin' for a number of years now, starting in Salem, MA and now in California.  I never joined the choir at the Salem church because the vast majority of their pieces bored me to tears.  The occasionally entertaining tunes weren't enough to maintain interest.  Then the choir director announced that one Sunday's musical theme would be Godspell, and something snapped.  After the service, I begged to be allowed to sing "All For the Best."  Yes, begged.  But the reason is not as benign as you'd think.  It was not that I was filled with the Holy Spirit and was compelled to sing the praises of the Lord, but because of my ego.  I didn't think that anyone else but me could do the song justice.  It's tied with another for my favorite song.  True, it's a duet, but half of it is a patter song, and I love me some patter songs.  Also, it has a whimsical melody and lyrics that are ripe for visual humor.  Long story short, the director let me do it, the musical dam was broken, and it was all thanks to my Michael Bay-sized ego.  A year later, after practicing in private for a solid year, she let me sing "Gethsemene (All I Want to Say)" from Jesus Christ Superstar.  That was supposed to be sung during Lent, not after Easter, but a surgery prevented me from performing it sooner.  Afterwards two people told me that I made them cry; they assured me that it was for "the right reasons" and not because my singing injured them.

I'm churchin' in California now, at a church too tiny to have a full choir, so the music director has to work with whomever is willing to show up for weekly rehearsals.  It took me another year or so of screwing my courage to its sticking place, but I've been showing up at rehearsals in the hopes that my fear of singing in front of a live, studio audience will be squashed once and for all.  The downside to all this is that the director turned out to be almost entirely uninterested in my tenor and prefers the sweet trill of a lady's alto instead.  In which case I can only conclude that he has never actually heard me sing the high notes (qv, my lack of lung power), or would realize what damage they're doing to the service.  No secret was made of my preference when I first started; we've been butting heads on this since day one.

Now this shouldn't seem like a big deal here, but here's the... er, deal: the only outlet I have for singing, other than my car, is during church services.  I'm not a great singer.  I have no aspirations to soar to new vocal heights or push my vocal cords to their limit or bring people to their knees in tears like I'm Grizabella from Cats.  I have a stressful job with long hours, and could use something that I can enjoy and will help me relax, but I've also been trying to find some way to serve God and my church other than just sitting in the pew and throwing a monthly pledge into the pie plates.  I am not what you would call a friendly person, so door-greeter is right out.  The "Life of the Community" segment bores me to tears, so I'd rather not contribute to that.  Etc etc.  My hope was that I could take a couple of extra hours per week to contribute the tenor melody for a few songs, and then sit in the pew.  Not mangle the alto harmony week... after week... after week.

So, not too long ago I sent a note to the music director that I would no longer be a regular contributor to the music program.  This part wasn't in the note, but I'd been trying to be a good sport and see if I couldn't get my inner crybaby to shut up and take one for (God's) team.  But, you know, I'm not a very strong person.  Outside of work, in my personal life, I cave in pretty easily to adversity.  There's a reason people don't talk or write about my inspirational "can do" tales of perseverance, because they don't exist.  So the crybaby won, I  quit, and went back to singing a quiet tenor in the pews.

Because I'm not a strong person, though, and wanted to give him the chance to discuss things, I arrived for the monthly choir potluck/jam session.  Then I had the chance to explain something left out of my email, and unrelated to my singing ability: I don't even LIKE most women's singing voices.  Except for rare, rare occasions, and by that I mean specific songs, high voices annoy me.  Altos annoy much less so than sopranos, but there you have it.  I don't think it's some weird self-misogyny - just the way I've felt for years and years.  So really it came down to being told that I must sing out of my range, with a voice I don't even like hearing from other women.

The upside is that, for that service, I got to sing tenor melody all service long, and it was bliss!  The downside is that the director still reserved the "right" to strongly request that I go the alto route again, like if I was the only chick that week or something.  So my time with the choir is week-to-week, I'm afraid to say.  That makes me sad.  The point of all this endless blabbering, and the reason I tried so hard to overcome my fear and hatred of singing, is that I actually do like singing.  Not enough to buy a bunch of video and music-editing software to throw stuff up onto YouTube, though, or wherever kids these days are trying to showcase themselves.  Or I suppose if I did, you'd better believe that comments would be disabled!