An Antic Disposition

by Alan Gordon

  “I am in a permanent game of Blind Man’s Bluff,” he said. “With this humble piece of wood, I am dowsing for fools. Who shall the spirit of the First Fool choose?”

  “Father?” asked Thomas.

  “Yes, lad?”

  “There’s something unfair about your method,” said the boy.

  “Is there?” asked the priest. “I would have thought that random pointing by a blind man would be as fair a method as any that could be devised.”

  “But one person will never be picked this way,” said the boy.

  “And who is that?”

  “Yourself,” said Thomas. “Is that because you’ve never been a fool?”

  There were some sharp intakes of breath from the older fools in the room.

  “He’s in trouble now,” I muttered to Claudia.

  Even in the firelight, I could see the priest’s face darken.

  “Never … been … a fool?” he repeated slowly. “Is that what you think?”

  “You’ve never talked about it,” said the boy.

  “I’ve told my stories many times,” said the priest.

  “Not lately,” called out Brother Timothy, our juggling master and second in command.

  “Really?” exclaimed the priest. He considered for a moment. “I suppose it has been a while. Well, then, although I suspect that this is a ruse on the part of young Thomas to avoid being called upon, it is a ruse that I can respect.”

  “And it appeals to your vanity,” teased Sister Agatha, our seamstress and the keeper of our wardrobe.

  “Vanity have I none,” said the priest. “I am too old to sin. Let me think. What extraordinary events in my life would be of interest to you young people?”

  He stood still, pondering the question.

  “He’s playing the moment,” I whispered to Claudia. “He knows damn well what he’s going to tell us. Watch.”

  While he stood in thought, the staff appeared to slide upward through his gnarled hand with no perceptible assistance from the priest. When it reached the end, he held his palm out, and the staff traveled across it, still seemingly of its own volition, to the tip of his index finger. Then he flipped it once through the air and caught it on the bridge of his nose. The staff ceased all movement, as if it had taken root on that ancient face.

  You have no idea how hard it is to do that. But we do, and the hall was filled with the respectful whistling of the gathered fools and troubadours.

  Father Gerald smiled and let the staff topple back into his waiting hand. “I wasn’t always old,” he began.

  “No!”

  “Impossible!”

  “Don’t lie to the children!” and other such cries rang out from the older fools, the ones who knew him well enough to razz him.

  “I was a fool like yourselves,” he continued, ignoring them. “Trained at the Guildhall and sent out into the world on various missions. My last assignment prior to heading the Guild was as Chief Fool in Denmark.”

  I tensed suddenly. Claudia sensed it and turned toward me.

  “What is it?” she whispered in concern.

  “This is not a story I want to hear,” I whispered back.

  “Denmark,” repeated Father Gerald. “A country of fragments, of scattered islands and soggy peninsulas, of pieces of land jutting into the sea and pieces of sea jutting right back into the land. A country of fragmented peoples, bound together by ancestral conquest, their individual resentment of each other exceeded only by their collective disdain for the rest of the world. Condescending Sjællanders, contentious Skanians, irresponsible Fyns, melancholy Jutes. Theophilos, you were from there originally. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Some of my best friends were Jutes.”

  “The problem with Denmark,” he continued, “is that unlike other countries, they had no law of primogeniture, which is what, Thomas?”

  “Um, right of the firstborn to succeed to the throne,” rattled off the boy.

  “Very good, Thomas,” said Father Gerald. “Or, for the common folk, to inherit. Now, that is not necessarily a bad thing. There’s no guarantee that the firstborn will be a capable leader, or even old enough to be an adequate monarch. The Danes would select from the available candidates the man most suited for the position. However, there was not always strict agreement as to who this should be. Frequently, several contenders would arise, each backed by powerful factions and armies of mercenaries. During the early part of the last century, five different brothers from the same family ended up being king for a short while.

  “So, it will not surprise you to know that the Guild was actively involved in trying to keep the country from falling into civil war. It will also not surprise you to know that, as in many things, we were only intermittently successful.

  “But this is by way of background, a setting for my story. It is a long one to tell, and I am too old to sing it, so bear with me. I shall tell it from the vantage point of God in His Heaven looking down, yet without the benefit of His omniscience. Like the country itself, the story is pieced together from many fragments told by many different people. As their final repository, it falls to me to assemble them into a coherent shape. It is a motley story, as a result.

  “It begins with two fools meeting at a crossroads.”

  Two

  Fardel, n. I. A bundle, a little pack; a parcel.

  2. fig. A collection, “lot,” parcel (of immaterial things) esp. A burden or load of sin, sorrow, etc.

  — The Oxford English Dictionary

  South Jutland, 1157 A.D.

  Two roads crossed on a slight rise from the surrounding heath. Although neither road was straight, each following the path of least resistance through the gently irregular landscape, the ancient builders had made some effort to make the crossroads a perfect perpendicular, perhaps to lend exactitude to the traveler searching for his way. At the center of the intersection, one could line up the four directions just as precisely as the ancients had with their stone circles marking the equinoxes and solstices.

  A crossroads, properly constructed, reminds you that you are making a choice.

  A huge standing stone, wrested from a granite boulder, stood by the crossroads, its face carved with runes. To the south, the road vanished into a forest of oak, the outer trees taking the brunt of the constant wind, bending slightly to the east. To the west, the heath descended into bog, only the road staying high enough to provide dry footing. To the east, a tiny but elaborately constructed stone bridge arched grandly over a brook that was all of four feet in breadth. The road followed the brook into the distance. Near the horizon, they met up with a small river running east, and the fickle road abandoned the weaker body of water in favor of the stronger, hugging the north bank.

  To the north, the road snaked between regularly shaped mounds of turf, grouped in pairs or sets of seven, rising twenty feet or so into the air, culminating in flattened circles at their peaks. It was from this direction that a man could be seen, appearing around the edge of the farthest mound, following the windings of the road.

  He was tall and lanky, a shabby gray cloak wrapped ineffectually around his body to ward off the ever-present wind. On his back were a bewildering variety of misshapen bundles, bound with string, twine, scraps of leather and cloth, holding them both to each other and to their bearer. They rose and fell with every step, some of them clanking as they did, others rattling or making odd clopping noises. The effect was a pleasing one, a regular rhythmic percussing, and the man sang along with it, an old Danish marching song that may have once cheered some Viking warriors on a rare occasion traveling by land.

  A casual observer might have found this sight odd in such a desolate region of the country, although anyone taking the trouble to observe the man would have been anything but casual. But what would have caused absolute astonishment was that the traveler was walking the road backward.

  He glanced over his shoulder periodically, more on the curves. At one point, he veered off th
e road and scampered to the top of one of the mounds. He surveyed the surroundings until he caught sight of the crossroads with the standing stone by it, then grunted to himself, satisfied. He slid lightly back down to the road and trotted, still backward, until he came to it.

  He shed the collection of bundles with an exaggerated groan, then leaned over, his knees perfectly straight, and touched the backs of his hands to the ground facing the east. He stood up, then bent over backward and touched the ground behind him. Then he stripped his cloak off, revealing a muddied motley tunic and leggings, and a face that had been powdered to an unnatural paleness. He started to swing his arms about, slowly at first, then faster and in larger circles until they were a blur. Then he made several shrugging motions while rolling his head in different directions until his neck made a series of cracking noises. He sighed with pleasure, then dug a cap and bells out of one of the many pouches at his belt and placed it carefully on his head.

  He was intrigued by the runestone, and stepped forward to examine it more closely. It was taller than him by the length of his arm, and the worn inscription was a jumble of scratches to his eyes, as incomprehensible as was the Latin alphabet in his early years. At the base of the stone, the inscriber had gouged a cross, delving a little deeper into the rock so that the last thing to fade would be Christs symbol.

  “Can you read them, then?” came a voice directly behind him.

  The fool swiveled his head carefully around to see a priest standing in the crossroads, wearing a plain brown cassock, unadorned by any order’s emblem. He was lightly holding an oaken staff that he did not seem to need for support. The fool cursed himself in his thoughts for letting the other man come behind him so easily, but the priest seemed good-natured enough.

  “I don’t have the reading of the runes,” said the fool. “Do you?”

  “Let me look,” said the priest, and he stepped forward and squinted at the scratches. “ ‘I, Gustav Andersson, own the lands within view of this stone. I have built this bridge for the glory of Our Savior, so that pilgrims may use it to travel to the Holy Land. May all who do so pray for my soul as I have prayed for theirs. Thus I do penance for my sins.’ It seems to be dated from early in the last century.”

  The fool looked at the bridge, which was made of stones that had to have been brought at great expense from other lands. All to span a brook that a child could have jumped.

  “It’s really not much of a bridge,” said the fool.

  “I suspect this Gustav Andersson was not much of a man,” said the priest. “His monument is larger than his penance.”

  “Perhaps his sins were small as well,” said the fool. “Let’s think the best of him, having never had the chance to meet him.”

  The priest and the fool stepped back from the stone and looked at each other.

  “I didn’t hear you approach,” said the fool finally.

  “No, you didn’t,” agreed the priest. “So, they’re letting fools into Denmark now, are they?”

  “It’s worse than that, Father,” replied the fool somberly. “They’re letting the Irish in, too.”

  The priest’s eyes widened, then he threw back his head and guffawed to the heavens.

  “You insolent toad,” said the priest. “My Danish is perfect. How did you know I was Irish?”

  “It’s not the accent,” said the fool. “But you have the map of Ireland writ large on your visage. I have seen enough Irishmen in my life to spot one in a crowd. And the two of us are not exactly a crowd, so it’s all the easier.”

  “Have you been to Ireland?” said the priest, a soft glow in his eyes. “Aye, that I have. It’s a fine country for fools. They blend right in.” The priest laughed again.

  “That they do, that they do,” he agreed, and held out his hand. “Stultorum numerus…”

  “Infinites est,” replied the fool, clasping it. “Terence of York, at your service. Nice outfit. Looks authentic.”

  “Gerald,” said the priest. “Father Gerald. It is authentic. I am a priest as well as a jester.”

  “Are you?” said Terence in surprise. “Then forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “Your penance is to live in Denmark,” said Father Gerald. “I am the Chief Fool for the country. I am living in Roskilde right now, but I make the rounds periodically. Did you have a good journey?”

  “Not bad at all,” replied Terence. “Landed in Ribe last week. The local fool put me up.”

  “Kanard,” said Father Gerald. “Invaluable man for a small town.”

  “Yes, well, he was kind enough to walk me to the right road and point me south. Told me to count twelve villages and then look for a crossroads with a stone that’s too large and a bridge that’s too small. Said I would meet a fool there. I was expecting a little more motley and makeup, I must say.”

  “Oh, I have it handy,” said Father Gerald, pulling up his sleeve to reveal the diamond patterns on his tunic. “But it’s convenient to travel like this. Why on earth were you walking backward, by the way?”

  “It’s that damn wind of yours,” replied Terence. “It never stops. I figured that if I let it blow on my right side the whole journey, I would be permanently bent by the time I got here. So, I spent half the trip walking backward so I would come out even.”

  The priest shook his head in amazement.

  “I know some fools take their roles too seriously,” he said. “But this is absurd.”

  “Of course, it is,” laughed Terence. “I figured you were watching from somewhere. I just wanted to give you something to think about.” He stretched his arms to the skies, then pulled his right foot up to his chin. “My boots are in a shocking state,” he observed. “All that walking.” Father Gerald smiled and lifted his cassock to reveal a pair of callused feet inside an ancient pair of sandals, held together by bits of string. The soles were worn parchment-thin. Terence inspected them critically.

  “I hope you won’t start complaining,” he said. “Or that fellow with no feet is going to show up and top us both.”

  Father Gerald lowered the cassock.

  “Where did you learn your Danish?” he asked.

  “There’s plenty who speak it in fork,” replied Terence. “My grandfather was a Danish sailor who lost a leg and settled there. He taught me how to curse like a Danish sailor, and I’ve been fluent ever since.”

  “And you speak German as well?” asked the priest. The fool nodded. “Good. You’ll need them both. I am sending you to Slesvig. Stay in the town, but get in good at the castle. The King’s name is Ørvendil—“

  “King?” interrupted Terence. “I thought there were three kings already in Denmark.”

  “Well, he fancies himself a fourth,” said Father Gerald. “But you’re right. At the moment, there are three kings, and they come bearing swords, not gifts. Knud Magnusson has the islands. He’s just a youth, nothing much, but the islands are not much to rule. Valdemar is the son of Knud Lavard, who actually was king for a while before he got himself murdered in the woods somewhere. And then there’s Sveyn Peder—he’s a bad one. The Sjaellanders pushed him to power, and now they are sorry they did. He’s brought in Wend mercenaries, and they are running riot taking tributes. He’s even trying to trade favors with the Germans, and people around here don’t like the Germans much.”

  “So, the Guild favors Valdemar?”

  “I favor Valdemar,” said Father Gerald. “But just because he’s the best man doesn’t mean he can take power from the others. The Guild’s interest at the moment is in keeping him alive, something I suspect Sveyn Peder opposes.”

  “How does Ørvendil fit into all of this?”

  “He was Valdemar’s man for a while, but when Valdemar put him in Slesvig, he started getting ideas. Slesvig is border country, practically independent. Tell you what, Fool. Stand with me and I’ll give you a demonstration.”

  Terence came to the priest’s side.

  “Look south,” commanded Father Gerald.

  Terence
gazed upon the forest.

  “That’s trouble,” said Father Gerald.

  “Is it?” asked the fool. “I only see trees.”

  “Very good,” said Father Gerald. “What you can’t see is beyond the trees. South of here is Holstein. They speak a different language, they have different loyalties, and they look at Jutland as a way to gain control of the northern seas. Look east.”

  “That’s where I’m going,” said Terence.

  “Look farther,” said Father Gerald. “That’s trouble.”

  Terence stood on the tips of his toes. “No, still can’t see anything but road and river,” he said.

  “Out east is Wendish territory. Nasty folk, available to be nasty for hire, as long as they can lug their seven-headed idols around. Now, look west. That’s trouble.”

  “That’s where I came from,” said Terence.

  “Not that far,” said Father Gerald.

  “I don’t suppose you mean the bog,” said Terence.

  “I like the bog,” said Father Gerald. “It slows down the armies.”

  “Whose armies?”

  “Flanders. Normandy. Maybe even your King Henry will send a fleet out to do a little fishing. Now, look north.”

  Terence turned to face the ancient mounds.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “That’s trouble.”

  “Up north, they are looking south and thinking this is trouble,” said Father Gerald. “An upstart duke who might switch allegiance to the Germans if it will make him a Danish king.”

  Terence looked north.

  “And they’ll all be joining those fellows under the mounds,” he said quietly. He shuddered suddenly. “Too many dead people in this country already, if you ask me. I’ve never seen so many barrows and monuments in one place.”

  “That’s Denmark for you,” said Father Gerald. “It hasn’t been Christian that long. The Vikings are just beneath the surface, waiting to burst forth. There’s been war in this country ever since the old king died. There is a tenuous peace in the land right now, but the balance could tip at any moment.”