Bewildering Stories welcomed me as one of their authors and gave me my first publication for 2023. “Second Chance” began as a character study with no redeeming characters. Kip told me what happened in an interview.
Kip a criminal serving time collecting trash in space is given an opportunity to mend his ways…or not. See the story by K.A. Kenny.
http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue987/
A young woman coming of age in an earlier age and rejected by her lover seeks an older woman’s advice to get her revenge. My first published story “The Tale of Lady Evangeline” was picked up by Of Metal and Magic Publishing late last month.
“Marta, is that you? You’re as beautiful as you were when we first met fifty years ago.
“Yes, Alex, this is me here at Xeaven Sent.” She tossed her head and brushed a tress of raven hair behind the shoulder of her red sundress.
“You look so healthy…so, so alive.” He scratched the paunch over his wide belt.
“Yes, and I always will. That’s because you loved me enough to buy me the Xeaven Sent premium package. That allowed me to select my age for eternity. And because you also signed up for the special, I was able to pick a new skill. I can play the piano, now, something I’ve always wanted to do. It’s all because of you, Alex, your love for me, and the wonderful people here at Xeaven Sent.”
“Don’t thank me, Marta. I never gave it a second thought. For a reasonable down payment and low monthly fees, I’ll be able to care for you forever. You’ll never die and never grow old.” Alex shook his head. “But how will I ever keep up with you?”
“Don’t you remember, Alex? Since you took the double-bonus option—for only a small increase in your monthly fee—you’ll be able to join me whenever you wish. You can call on the friendly euthanologists here at the Xeaven Sent any time. There’s no need to wait, and you don’t have to go through that messy business of dying.”
“Oh Marta, that sounds wonderful. I can hardly wait.”
“Yes, and if you apply before the end of the year, you’ll qualify for the Xeaven Sent world tour. I’m already signed up.”
The view receded to reveal Marta in front of an arched doorway. Smiling, she gestured Alex to follow and stepped through the door. “Paris,” she called and, as the mist cleared, pointed to the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe beyond. “Come soon, Alex, and we can share wine, cheese, a baguette, and a stroll along the Champs-Élysées. I always told you we should come here. Now, we can, thanks to Xeaven Sent.”
The scene shifted to a dark, handsome man in a white shirt, red-and-blue-striped tie, and flashing a wide, toothy smile.
“Wanna live forever? Here at Xeaven Sent that’s not a trick question.” He leaned forward and lifted a finger. “We pride ourselves on offering the best afterlife services on the market, state-of-the-art, with benefits and options to suit every taste and wallet—as Marta just said, including eliminating the formality of actually having to die.”
He stepped from his desk into a garden of mulched flowerbeds, manicured lawns, and broadleaf trees. “Everything you love in life you can have here in Xeaven Sent. Yes, you can take it with you. Work, certainly, if you insist, and better. You can instantly attend meetings anywhere on Earth, even two or three at a time. Or—” He stepped toward a slender, cornsilk-haired beauty and passionately embraced her. “Xeaven Sent is not only about business meetings.”
He winked as the scene ended.
# # #
“And cut.” The director swiveled to the actors seated behind him. “Fabulous. Love it. You can all pick up your checks at the front desk.”
He looked to the fat, bald man in the t-shirt who played Alex and pointed. “I wanna keep you on contract. We can always use a common everyman type.” He then turned to the fashion model who played Marta.
“You were beautiful, just beautiful, sweetheart. I wanna use you in my next major film. Of course, we must wait till this commercial is off the air a couple months. You available for dinner tonight and drinks? I wanna introduce you to our sponsor.”
Kalon Kuday took his seat in the market square just as he did every week. After the children gathered, he told them a story. “Three men went down to the sea to sail,” he began.
The first man walked to his boat and climbed in. While he waited for someone to untie the lines and push him off, the man’s gaze never left the horizon. A breeze filled the sail and carried the man and his boat out from shore and onto a calm sea. The breeze remained at his back and shifted occasionally, also shifting the sail, so the man had no need to touch either the sail or the tiller. A short while later, the man found himself across the sea, entering a safe harbor, and lined up with a berth. A cheering crowd greeted him, tied his boat securely, and helped him ashore.
The second man, before untying his boat, studied the rigging of the sail and motion of the rudder. He then stepped aboard and, when others came to advise and help him, he thanked them. By this time, the gentle breeze had grown brisk and unsteady, and clouds gathered. Leaving the harbor required the man to steer and adjust the sail. Shifting wind and waves demanded constant adjustment to remain afloat and on course. No one noticed when he entered the far harbor, stepped onto the pier, and tied his boat.
In no hurry, the third man inhaled the sea air, felt the breeze pick up, and watched the clouds gather. When people onshore said it had gotten late and a storm was coming, he scowled and waved them back. As if to prove them wrong, and with no preparation, he took his place in the boat. The untrimmed sail snapped and swung; the lashed tiller remained immobile. When no one came to help, the man shouted, waved a fist, and cut the bow and stern lines. The misaligned sail folded in the wind and the boat spun, forcing the man to row in order to leave the harbor. The boat drifted and rocked, moving forward only when a wind shift caught the sail just right. When waves flooded the boat, the man cursed at his fate bailed water with a bucket. After many days, the boat grounded on a reef, and the man washed ashore. Locals to this day recount the odd man swearing and blaming everyone for his misfortune.
Kalon Kuday rested his hands on his crossed legs. The children waited for his first question.
“Which of the three men was most successful?”
Radib had his answer ready. “Easy. The first one, because he crossed the sea and didn’t have to work much.”
Anik agreed. “And everyone cheered when they saw him.” He paused. “And now everyone knows him so he can be the King.”
Tima shook her head. “The second man learned how to sail, so he did the most, and he’s the smartest.”
Anik protested. “But nobody saw him, so he didn’t get any credit, and his trip was wasted.”
Kalon Kuday stroked his thin mustache. “And which of the three would you say got what he wanted most?”
“The third man didn’t, but the other two did.” Tima bobbed her head.
A wide-eyed girl sitting in front spoke up. “No, everyone got just what they wanted.” Kalon Kuday smiled down at little Sibanya.
Radib frowned at his sister. “All the third man got was angry.”Sibanya held up her chin. “That was what he wanted—to be angry at everyone all the time. All three men got what they wanted most.”
My third story to be published this year appears in Altered Reality.
A scientist learns the limits of science. It seems neither love nor science conquers all.
A young woman coming of age in an earlier age is rejected by her lover and seeks an older woman’s advice. My first published story, “The Tale of Lady Evangeline”, was picked up by Of Metal and Magic Publishing in late February.
“I’m six years old today, Daddy.”
“Happy birthday, Button. After lunch we’re having a birthday party for you. All your friends are coming, and they might even bring you some presents.” Dave smiled, nodding wide-eyed.
“I remember once you told me when I was six years old I could have a puppy?” Dorothy said, rocking as she stood.
“I remember saying that if Mommy agreed you might have a puppy.” Dave chose his next words carefully. “You know there aren’t any real puppies or kitties anymore. All gone. Now we have robots. Easier to care for and better for the environment.”
“I know that.” Little Dorothy’s body wobbled as her head bobbed. “My teacher told me that at school. She said old robots need homes. When they wear out, people put them into new furry bodies and teach them to play with children, wag their tails, and lick my face, and love me, and sleep in my bed, and keep me company when I’m sad, and—”
“Yes, I think the new doggies can do all those things, even purr if you want them to. People program them for all the things you want them to do.”
Dorothy scrunched her mouth to one side and dropped her eyes. “Mommy didn’t want me to have a puppy. But I told her you promised, and she said it was okay.”
Dave put on his best frown to look upset. “Okay, Button. But when you go to the shelter, I’ll go with you. I don’t want you picking out a hair dryer or a vacuum cleaner.”
Dorothy giggled. “That’s silly, Daddy. Why would I get a vacuum or hair dryer?”
Dave lifted his daughter onto his knee. “Of course, you wouldn’t do that on purpose, but you might make a mistake. Robots never die and some are very old. Long ago people made them to do just one thing, like clean floors, or wash dishes, or play games like chess. That made some people angry. They said robots should all be created equal. After that, all robots got the same brain even when they only did one thing.”
When Dorothy rubbed her hands in worry, Dave raised his tone and lifted his arms. “Of course, it might be nice to have a doggie that cleaned instead of messed on the floors.”
Dorothy laughed, gave her father a neck hug, then looked up into his face. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t know you wanted to go to the shelter. I wanted to have my puppy here with me for my birthday party.”
“That’s okay, Button. I’m sure if Mommy went with you, everything will be wonderful.”
“Oh, it will. My doggie will have black and white fur with floppy ears, and …” She paused. “Daddy, remember when you said I could have a giraffe?”
“What ya doin’ now?” Justin asked.
“Same as eight minutes ago … making friends.” Greg’s eyes darted as his fingers skipped over his lap device.
Justin peered over Greg’s arm. “How many friends you got now?”
“A lot … five … six … seven … since morning I’ve added two thousand, two hundred and seven … eight … nine …” Greg clicked down the accept list.
Justin threw his arms out and flopped back in his chair. “Wow! You’re the most popular guy I know.”
“Don’t say guy, someone might take it the wrong way.”
“Sorry. You ever gonna meet any of your new friends?” Justin asked. Greg shook his head. “Not even the girls? Girls really go for popular guys, I hear. Makes ‘em get all … you know … like … ahh, excited.”
Greg faked a yawn. “Since when? Girls get all their fantasy characters online, avatars wayyy cooler than me. That way they get to play like they’re magical princesses and don’t even have to comb their hair.”
“I thought it was just me they didn’t like,” Justin said and grimaced.
“Been that way ever since the world got perfect. Who wants normal dudes? Too much work.” Greg shrugged, and Justine went back to clicking.
The galactic overseers watched the scene as they rocked in silence in the mist of the saline hearth. When the monitor darkened, Otch turned to Cot. “You see what we’re up against? That was years ago. We didn’t do anything then, and it’s gotten much worse.”
Cot did not respond and continued waving its many eyestalks in the warm, briny mist. Then it casually lifted a slark worm from the hors d’hoeuvre tray and proceeded to sip extrusion from its shell.
Otch pressed. “Tell me, Cot, how are your humans doing?”
Cot paused only an instant then returned to slark-surping.
Too direct, Otch thought. Cot was sensitive about discussing its humans. Every conversation they’d had on the topic had ended with an argument. Otch retracted its eyestalks, biding its time while Cot ate.
When the last of the slark disappeared from the tray, Otch tried again. “I’m sorry Cot, but I must persist. As you saw on the monitor, my humans are failing to thrive. I don’t know what’s wrong with them. I’ve done everything to make them happy, given them everything they’ve asked for, and yet they’re dying. Humans don’t know they’re no longer on Earth, but the problems began right after the relocation …” No response. Otch knew what Cot wanted.
“Okay, I apologize,” Ocht said. “I admit, you may have been right about the humans. And I was wrong to side against you in the relocation meeting.”
“You laughed at me,” Cot finally said, its tendrils oscillating.
“I’m sorry for that, too.”
“Then you voted to have my opinions struck from the record.”
“And that, too. But listen, Cot. Nothing is working. The new habitats are identical to the ones humans had on Earth. We just removed the obstacles and smoothed the rough edges—diseases, poor climate, shortages. We made everything perfect for them. Abundant delectable foods, lavish entertainments, rewards for every act, complete safety. We know we missed something. I’m down to a few dozen females, no males. Justin and Greg are gone. When females showed no interest in them, the males kicked around for a while then just stopped living.” Cot nodded as if this should have been expected.
“We want you back on the team,” Otch said. Cot nodded and, after a beat, Ocht asked again, “So how are your humans doing?”
“I’ve got twelve hundred and thirteen,” Cot said quietly.
“No, that’s not possible,” Ocht said, his voice rising in disbelief. “That would mean an increase. Are you saying your population has grown?” Cot nodded. “What? You’ve found some new entertainment for them … some new drug?”
“We’ve had this discussion before, and I won’t go through it again. You and the relocation team only want to hear answers that support your thinking.” When Ocht began to protest, Cot held up a dozen tendrils. “I think we’re done here. Thank you, old friend, for the most excellent slark worms.” With that, Cot bowed and slid from the room.
On returning to its neighborhood, Cot donned the guise of a barn owl and flew out to visit its humans. They worked together to grow food, traded goods, repaired homes and various devices, talked about last night’s storm and how their children were doing in school. Boys and girls talked, sharing their dreams and plans. And everyone complained about how hard life was.
Sacred relics, hidden by ninth century Vikings, arrive at the Medieval Studies Department of Nimueh College. Ernest and Lisa, with the annoying presence of Dean Gilders’ nephew Bryton, begin restoring and interpreting six runic scrolls, and hope to discern the purpose of a leather object concealed behind a secret panel. (See “Fool’s Cap” and “Pity Not the Fool”)
When Earnest entered the lab next morning, Lisa was already hard at work. “Ahhh, Lisa. Anything interesting?”
“Good morning, Ernie. The scrolls are beginning to uncurl. I brushed the creases with gelatin to keep them from splitting.” She picked one up and read the runes along the top, “Til ao hindra veikindi hlatur er besta lyf.”
“Which means?” Lisa’s Nordic was better than his.
“Roughly, ‘To deter sickness, laughter is the best medicine’. It appears this has medicinal incantations. But in the next line I found a reference to heimskingjans hettu, the fool’s cap.”
“Oooh, I do hope so.” Ernest lifted his eyes to the ceiling, mouth wide.
Lisa brought the triangular panels from the back shelf. “I worked more Neatsfoot oil in this morning. The stitching is silk.” She unfolded the wedges gently into a cone, six-panels, alternating dark green and red, with leather appendages.
“Excellent.” He smiled at Lisa’s enthusiasm. “Take it slow, and keep working in the oil. I’ll get some leather cleaner.” He checked the drawer below the lab bench.
Lisa set the cap upright over a stand then returned to the scrolls on the table. “The header on this scroll reads, ‘Negotiating with Christians’. What’s that about?”
“Ahh … I had a feeling.” Ernest clutched his head with both hands and gave a silent thank you. “Old Testament scriptures speak of other gods, but European Christians could never abide them. The Jestercians were a Nordic-Druidic order, pre-Christian. The Jester was said to speak those godly tongues. I suspect she was the top diplomat dealing with the Christian Franks.
Lisa raised a finger then leaned over the flattening table. She tested the uncurling edges of the scrolls. “Each must serve a different function. But until we unroll them, I can only read a line or two. This one is beautifully illuminated.” She peered at the barely separated edge and shined her light magnifier. “Heimskinginn Fero, fool’s manual, map, no, guide … ‘A Guide for the Fool’s Journey.’ That must be the master scroll.”
She glanced at Ernest across the table and saw his eyes twinkling. She gave a soft handclap then dove back in. “Okay, six scrolls: the master guide, medical and negotiation scrolls, then three others.”
Lisa turned the steamer to mist the three scrolls then tried each of their edges again. “These have simple runes for short incantations.” She pulled all three toward her and lined them up. Ernest leaned in. She appreciated his patience.
Several hours later, she looked up from the table, stretched her arms and shoulders back, and took a cleansing breath. Ernest rolled a hand, beckoning her to reveal her discovery.
Lisa rested her hand on the last three scrolls in sequence. “One for good fortune, one for sexual potency, and one for anger—a pacifier.” She stepped back, held her arms up, and bowed to all sides as if to a gallery of appreciative viewers.
“Hurrah, excellently done,” Ernest said, applauding. “Your interpretation confirms what we believed about Jestercian theology. In the illuminated scroll, the fool’s journey is a metaphor for the journey each of us must take. We begin life as fools and return to that state at each transition: leaving home, entering a trade, selecting a mate, all major life decisions. Apprentice Jesters were called great fools because they made many transitions, and here we have scrolls for five of them. Special caps assisted their training and also warned others.”
“Awesome hat, Ernie!” They turned to see Bryton pulling the fool’s cap over his unwashed hair and hopping about like a drunken marionette. He wore the same smiley-face tee shirt with some new ketchup stains. “I could wear this for the party tonight.”
“Bryton, please take that off,” Ernest said through clenched teeth.
“It’s part of our research,” Lisa said, “very fragile and very valuable.”
“Weeell aaall right. You know, you guys are real bummers.” He shuffled his feet, doffed the cap, and bowed, sweeping the cap low. “Milady Liz, Bryton Gilders at your service.” He handed it to Lisa then plopped into the stuffed armchair.
Lisa looked at Earnest, who could barely contain his anger, then back at Bryton. “I want to study the scrolls a little more tonight,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow you can help flatten and repair the creases with me. I’ll show you how that’s done.”
Bryton looked pleased. “Okay, tomorrow I work … but tonight I play.” He jumped up. “How about you two? Pot’o Gold? This is a special night, and you should celebrate your big discovery.”
“Special night? Did I miss something?” Lisa asked, shifting her gaze to Ernest.
Bryton rolled his eyes. “Just St. Patty’s Day. Hey dudes! Time for the green. Pot’o Gold’s having a big party … beer, song, dance, all the good stuff.” He threw his arms wide and rocked in his seat.
“For once, Bryton might have a good idea,” Ernest said. “It’s been a long while since we took a break, and we do have something to celebrate.” Lisa nodded tentatively.
“Right we do. Of course, we do.” Bryton grinned at his win. “What time shall we go?”
“How about we meet you over there?” Lisa said. “Dr. Woerth, do you know the way? I’d need a lift.” She pointed a finger at Bryton. “And you, how about changing that shirt?”
“No prob, Liz, it’s Friday night … wash night … and I’m not wearing any green.” He pulled at his stained smiley shirt then jumped up from his chair and headed to the door. “Got to go rest up for tonight.
The Pot’o Gold was crowded and smelled of spilt beer, old wood, and fresh corned beef and cabbage. Laborers, students, and a few police officers and firemen filled most of the tables. A fiddler played an Irish tune to the vigorous accompaniment of a drum, flute, and tin whistle.
Lisa and Ernest each ordered a Guinness and agreed to share an order of fish and chips, which arrived quickly as the bartender had everything lined along the bar. Lisa leaned across the table so she wouldn’t have to shout over the music. “A fortuitous day, would you say?”
“Fortuitous, indeed. A good word all considering.” Ernest lifted his tall mug, and Lisa did likewise. “To the Jestercians.”
“To the Jestercians,” she repeated then added, “and to the anonymous donor for our wondrous gifts.”
Ernest nodded, took another pull on his Guinness, and noted patches of red and green peeking from Lisa’s purse. “You brought the fool’s cap?”
“After Bryton’s episode, I didn’t want to chance him appropriating it for his costume tonight. It also inspires my studies. I took a few notes before I left the lab this evening to get ready for our date.”
Ernest smiled, and Lisa was pleased to see he also considered this a date. They looked like a couple—unconsciously, both had chosen to wear cream-colored, Irish turtlenecks and ornamental shamrocks.
The lights darkened before Earnest could speak and the room quieted. A costumed woman stood in the spotlight and sang an Irish ballad.
Steal away, let’s steal away
No reason left to stay
For me and you, let’s start anew
And Darlin’ let’s steal away
Ernest slid his chair beside Lisa’s so they could watch together. The lilting soprano transfixed them, but not everyone in the pub.
“Asshole,” came a shout from across the room. A chair slammed to the floor, followed by a young man, a student no doubt, flying backwards to rebound off a wall. The felled student twisted to pull himself onto his elbows.
Lisa recognized the slightly less-stained, smiley-face tee shirt and the mop of matted, black hair. Three Nimueh jocks in matching sports jerseys pushed tables aside to go after him.
Without thinking, Lisa slid the cap from her purse and onto her head. “An farandverkefni Viking hættir a hus bonda …” she said and two other lines. The toughs continued coming but began to smile and laugh, along with the rest of the pub. Reaching Bryton, they lifted him to his feet, dusted him off, and ordered a fresh beer to be brought to their table. Bryton looked confused but rejoined their group.
“What was that?” Ernest asked, checking the room. No one else seemed to notice Lisa’s intervention.
“That’s from the Reioi. I told those guys that Bryton was a fine fellow who said stupid things, like they sometimes did.” She shrugged and flashed a sheepish grin.
“Hey Liz, Ernie,” Bryton shouted and waved then rose to join them. Lisa tucked the cap back into her purse. “Did you two see that?” Bryton pointed back. “I thought those guys were really mad at me.” Lisa suppressed a smirk. Bryton glanced between her and Ernest. “You look pretty cozy over here. Don’t want to break things up. Sooo …” He scanned the room. “I think the girls over there need my attention.” Bryton lifted his chin to a pair of young women at the bar and trotted over. They averted their eyes, put their heads together, and laughed.
Conversations picked up and the fiddler returned to the stage. Ernest leaned over and whispered, “Reioi?”
Lisa waited for a waiter to pass their table. “Hindra reioi, the scroll for deterring anger. It’s the last thing I remember from my notes this afternoon. I was going to ask you to look them over just before this happened.”
“Those men couldn’t have understood what you said.” Ernest gave Lisa an admiring, open-mouthed smile. “The fool’s cap, it works for you. You are the new Jester. The cap selected you.”
He looked at the check on the edge of the table. “Since we’re calling this a date, may I pick up the tab?”
Lisa half smiled and lifted an eyebrow.
After twelve centuries, the Fool’s Cap of the Druidic order of Jestercians—entrusted to the Vikings in the ninth century and buried at Dorestad castle— found a new home at Nimueh College west of St. Louis, and a worthy apprentice in Lisa Svanetti.
The story begins twelve hundred years earlier with Vikings concealing a mystical trunk to keep it out of the hands of Frankish heretics. (See “Fool’s Cap”)
By the time Ernest Woerth reached the lab, the trunk had arrived, and Lisa Svanetti was signing the paperwork. She was a graduate student in medieval history and an expert in Nordic runes. She had read his paper on the Jestercians and come to Nimueh College to work with him.
“Excellent,” Ernest said, checking the trunk’s seal and general condition. The oak trunk was twenty inches long by twelve high and wide, and bound with brass hinges and fittings. The boards were caulked and seams sealed with pitch and pine tar, like ship hulls in the ninth century.
“Is this the Dorestad cache?” Lisa asked, pointing to the tar-stained seal. When Ernest nodded, she squealed and danced around in a circle.
“They should make for an excellent thesis,” Ernest said. “I want you to take the lead.” She jumped to embrace him. “But before we celebrate, let’s make sure there is something inside.” He went to the tool cabinet for a chisel.
While they talked, a young man came in, plopped himself in a side chair, and swung his legs over the arm. “Hi, Ernie. I see my project arrived. Uncle Scott said you needed some help.”
“Indeed, I do, Bryton,” Ernest said, drawing a thin smile and regretting his promise to Dean Gilders to keep his nephew Bryton busy.
Bryton scratched his patchy beard then pulled the smiley-face emblem on his tee shirt to free it from sticking to his body. The smell of fried potatoes and stale sweat wafted into the room. Ernest glanced at the unopened trunk then at Lisa, who covered her mouth with her hand.
“Hi, Bryton.” Lisa nodded in the young man’s direction. I’m Lisa Svanetti, Dr. Woerth’s graduate intern.”
“Nice to meet you, Liz,” he raised his hand as if to wave then ran fingers through his matted hair. “Yer kinda like the formal type, huh? And real booky.”
“Yup. And you’re a quick one.”
“My mother always told me that.”
“Enough chat,” Ernest said. “Time to get to work.”
“Sure ‘nuff, Ernie.” Bryton slid one leg off the chair arm and shifted his body to watch. While Lisa softened the pine tar with linseed oil, Ernest worked the seals. The last one parted a half-hour later.
“You superstitious?” Ernest asked Lisa.
“About the curse? I’ll risk it to be the first to lift the trunk lid,” she said, and Ernest nodded for her to go ahead.
The stale odor of desiccation overwhelmed the smell of French fries coming off Bryton. Lisa inhaled deeply, and Ernest motioned her to continue. Inside she found six scrolls, each individually bound with a leather strap and sequestered in its own pigeonhole.
“Those the doorstops?” Bryton asked, leaning forward without shifting a leg. “They look like rolls of old newspaper.”
“The Dorestad Scrolls,” Ernest corrected, turning one in his hand. “Sheepskin vellum, ninth century. Paper didn’t reach northern Europe until the 13th century. The Franks never found them when they overran Dorestad—probably the last Viking stronghold in Germany.”
Lisa transferred the scrolls to plastic sleeves then prepared the lab table to re-hydrate, unroll, flatten, and repair them: spatulas, surgical knives, magnifiers, ink, brushes, fountain pens, oil, leather preservative, sprayer, steamer, document spreader, all tucked in bins along the lab table.
Bryton stretched his body across the arms of the chair and yawned. “You know, dudes, I’m not big into crafts. Think I’ll get a bite in the cafeteria. No rules against lunch, right?”
“None at all, Bryton,” Ernest said without looking up. “Go ahead. We’ll be along.”
Lisa lifted the rough-hewn trunk to clear space then set it back to complete her examination. “They wanted this watertight. It’s makeshift but solid. Look at the hinges.” She lifted the lid wide, and Ernest brought headlamp magnifiers for the two of them. Feeling inside, Lisa detected another seal and tapped the lid. Hollow.
Ernest reached for the chisel. “Looks like there’s something the Jester didn’t want found—a treasure perhaps,” he said. Lisa’s eyebrows arched. The panel came free in one minute, and with it, a stack of wedges, alternating red and green and sown along the edges.
“Leather?” Lisa wondered aloud as she turned the stack under the light. “
“Give it a little Neatsfoot oil and let it soak.” Ernest checked his watch. “We missed the cafeteria.”
“I’m too excited to eat. All I can think about is reading the scrolls.”
“Very well,” Ernest said. “I’ll help you unroll them. Tomorrow we can work on the leather stack.”
“What do you think it is?”
“What I hope it is.” His eyes shifted wistfully upward. “According to legend, the Jester gave her apprentice mage a device to help him master the scrolls, a fool’s cap. It designated his training status and bestowed immunity from punishment should he screw something up in his training.”
“Like Mickey Mouse’s cap in ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’ in Fantasia?” Ernest nodded.
Lisa cocked her head and asked, “So why do we only think of fool’s caps being worn by court comedians?”
“When the Franks and later medieval kingdoms couldn’t get any of the Jestercian incantations to work, they made fun of them. The fool’s cap became a sign of derision, the same as the Jester. They wore replicas to mock Vikings and Druids. We might have found the original fool’s cap or one of the replicas—or it might just be a leather purse.”
Will the Fool’s Cap be a blessing or a curse? Next week’s blog post.
Strange Things Done 