A Long Tyme Agoon in a Shire Far Away

Gentil rederes, longe tyme hath it been syn Ich have been able to take reste and wryte upon this blog. Right fullye occupyed Ich have been with the makinge of poetrye, and eek wyth keepinge my Lord Kyng Richard companye.

My Lord the Kyng ys reallye into spelunkinge, and he maketh me go wyth hym every weekende. The while we are downe muckinge about yn waiste-high watere and almost fallinge over ledges, my Lord the King speketh moore and more of how "appealing" revenge semeth to hym. Ich saye to hym that revenge is never a good idea. To convince hym of the evils of revenge, Ich have written a tale of Melibee, and yet everich tyme Ich do yive it unto hym to rede he semeth to falle yn to a slumber. Ich did aske hym if the tale helde no solas for hym, and he did saye ful curteisly and kingly unto me, "Nay, think nat so, Geoffrey. It ys merelye thys newe imported feather bedde of myne from Calays that ys so softe and pleasaunt unto me. It maketh me to sleep everich tyme I do laye down on yt to rede of yower tale. Indeede, thys feather bed ys so envoluping it semeth that a man koude esily be slayne by it." And then he looked out ynto space.

Swich is My Lord the Kinge thes dayes. And yet, a tetchy kinge notwithstandinge, finallye Ich have hadde a litel space of myn owene for to maken of verses, thogh Ich feare nowe nobody doth lyke verses eny moore. Helas, for Ich am super psyched to maken severale lynes followe oon anothir for hundreds of pages, and yet it semeth everichoon thes dayes loveth oonly to twit and tweete and maken up a gret swarme of quippes and linkes. A blog semeth about as cuttinge edge as a sworde buryed in a mounde. Thogh Ich have made an accompte of twitter, Ich knowe but litel how to maken of a fyne and retweetable tweete. Litel Lowys doth mock me dailye with a fiers mockinge, sayinge “watching yow trye to tweet, Dad, ys lyk watchinge Archbishop Arundel trye to keepe hys cool a a Lollard support groupe. Helle of awkward!” The tweet so short, the crafte so longe to lerne!

And yet Ich have had comfort in myn art. For Ich am composinge a narratif about folke who are togedir ythrowne by the windes of fate and goon on a journeye.

Naye, Ich nam nat spekinge of the Tales of Caunterburye, the which Ich have temporarilye putte on hoolde, but rathir of a newe set of tales. Thinketh of this: the image of the viage of an erthely pilgrimage ys but a maner of shewinge the wey of thilke parfit glorious pilgrimage into the celestial spheeres of the skye, in which we shal weare awesome shinye clothes and have swooshie laser swordes and eek have snappye dialog and sweepinge orchestrale bakkeground musique as we flye arounde the sunnes and moones and thinges-that-are-nat-moones. And thus Ich am writinge nat of pilgrimes on erthe but of pilgrimes -- wayteth for yt -- IN THE STERRES!

Yt is but in bittes and pieces as of nowe, but yt semeth good to share my descripciouns of the characters wyth yow, my goode rederes. Ich wolde be right glad to heare of yower feedback. And eek, please lette me knowe if sum oon hath alredy made eny fable or ficcion that yn eny waye doth resemble thys oon.

***

NOTES OF CHARACTER SKECCHES FROM THE GENERALE PROLOGE OF

THE PILGRIMES IN THE STERRES

Ther was a SMUGGELERE, and he the beste,

Wyth gowne of whit and snazzye litel veste.

He hadde a shippe that was a noble vessel

For in twelf parsekkes it had yronne the Qessel;

At customes houses nevir did he pause –

For resoned he ther was but litel cause:

To paye a tax or impost made hym wood,

And I seyde his opinioun was good:

Why sholde hys labour fatten up the paunches

Of bureaucrates that sitte upon their haunches

And tak their paye from honest merchauntes werke?

This good man kepte the officiales in the derke

And oft he wolde in his shippes floore hyde.

From oon ende of the sterres to the other syde,

He hadde yflowne, and seene many a wondere,

And yet he hadde no feare of Goddes thondere.

He seyde hys destinee was hys to make

Wyth blastere or wyth sleight or wyth wisecrake.

Of goold and eek of love he had a thirste,

In altercaciouns he ay shot firste.

A WODWOS hadde he, and servantz namo,

A goodly furrye man, from hedde to sho.

Hys lokkes were longe and brown as aren a bearys,

Wher he hath sat, a man may knowe – there hair ys!

A bandolier he wore about hys sholdere

And of bowcastre boltes yt was the holdere.

He was a worthy frende yn tymes of stresse,

Thogh yif a man sholde beate him atte chesse

This gentil beest wolde th’arme rippe from the winner;

Therefor he wonne as oft as Bobbye Fischer.

And ther were wyth thes two good men, on shippe,

By plotte-twist yfalle yn felawshippe,

Fower otheres, of which I shalle anon yow telle,

(And all but oon shal lyve until the sequelle).

A TRANSLATEUR was with hem, maad of goold,

He knewe ech langage newe and ech tonge oold.

A conversacioun right wel this man koud carrye

Wyth vaporators d’eaux in tonge binarye.

And yet he timorous was, and oft wolde hyde

If daunger or if batel did betyde.

Whan men did fighte, for feere he almost breste.

An oyle bath he loved al the beste.

And wyth hym cam a smal ARTIFICER

Whos armour was as azure bright and cler

And eek as whit as ys the whales boon.

Althogh men have two eyen, he had but oon,

In maner of the creatur hight cyclopes.

He was so gret a clerk that ther no pope ys

That koude so muchel of calculaciouns

And ars-metrik, and werkes of alchemie,

And al the divers calculaciouns

By which to maken navigaciouns.

He was a verray parfit killer app,

And ofte in joye he cryed out “bweep, er-dap!”

A WHINY YOUTHE cam nexte, barleye a man,

With yelwe haire, tunique, and farmeres tan.

But aquaculture litel did he love,

He wolde been a pilot al above

And bullseye oump-rattes yn a nimble craft.

Saye, have ye evir been upon a rafte

And herde the wynde blowe fast over the wave

So that the winde did seme to sighe and rave?

Wyth just swich fierceness sigheth thys yonge man,

And whineth eek, and whingeth whan he kan,

For he ne lovede nat his occupacioun

And he wolde rathir go to Tashi stacioun.

And wyth hym rood an oolde EREMITE,

Who knew the crafte of armes more than a lite;

He loved the forse syn he a youngling was,

And eek trouthe and honour, and kickinge arse.

Ful worthy was he in the auncient werres,

For in thos tymes he foughte on manye sterres:

At Theed citee he was, whanne it was won,

And many a metal foe he had outdon;

And eek he made the stande at Jeonosis

(the which, I trowe, was nat a bunch of roses!);

At Rhin-Vare had he foughte, and Terre Sool.

From Corpusant and Utapaux al hool

He cam aweye, unnethe wyth a scracche

Thogh on Mustphar he nerely met his macche.

A saber loved he beste, and thoghte it faster

And moore gentil than eny randome blaster.

Ful wys he was, no action-hero merely,

Thogh of paternitee he spak unclearlye.