The Ram Delivers a Letter

March 23, 2008

With Reynard firmly in the noble lion’s good graces, he embarks upon his pilgrimage. His first stop is home, where his loving wife is waiting with their two kids. The lion, in his beneficence, sent along the ram and Cuthbert the hen to accompany him on the first part of his journey. At the house, Reynard invited the hen inside for a few moments. Once there, he summarily bites off Cuthbert’s head and devoured the rest of the poor animal. The head he saved, putting it into a bag that the king had lent him. He then summoned the ram, telling him that the bag contained a letter, and that he would entrust this thing to him to safely transmit to his majesty the lion.
“Tell our most noble king the lion that you helped in the writing of this letter, that—for the most part—you were its author. He will be most greatly impressed with your skill and bestow on you surely a great honor.”
The ram, having not the least idea of how to compose a letter, was much pleased to be given credit for such a thing.
“Imagine!” Me writing a letter…and for the king, no less!”
So he took the bag from Reynard, fastened it around his neck so as better to carry it.
Proud was he the ram, as he made his way through the forest and back to the king. Anticipating the gladness of the court to hear his tidings, he made haste to put quickly his trip behind him. At the court, he presented the king his good wishes, and indicated the bag around his neck.
“There’s a letter in there for you,” said the ram. “And I helped write it. Or, mostly writ it. In any case, it’s for you.”
The lion bade one of his clerks take the bag from the four-legged beast’s neck, see what this letter business was all about. No sooner had the bag been liberated than the clerk, an animal by the name of Blastart, withdrew the last remaining part of Cuthbert’s person—his poor head.

“Why, damned be the very air we breathe, which of a sudden becomes heavy and seemeth not very able to sustain us. Damned, too, the withering things of the forest, the verdant and life-giving things. Damn it all to hell, that’s the head of Cuthbert!” The ram was just as astonished as the rest, not being able to make any sense of this new turn of events. It’s true, the fox had told him that Cuthbert might be detained a little longer, then rejoin the others when his business there was finished, but the ram had not expected this.

“And you!” Roared the lion, addressing the ram. “Given just this moment your witness of what layeth in that bag, so shall your end be no different from that of the hen’s!” Things got a little confused at this point, this being the 1400s and all. Somehow it was concluded that the ram would forever be the enemy of the wolf, and all members of that sheep family should be smote wherever they be.

In the course of the confused raging against the absent fox and the hideous gift he’d made to the king, the lion remembered of course to pin the blame on his good dame the queen.
“This is all your fault!” the lion roared; “Without your counsel, I should never have believed that pointy-eared scoundrel so rightly named Reynard!” Others in his court came to her defense, pointed out that rightly she believed the light-footed and cunning animal.
“Er, he WAS rather convincing,” said one of his clerks, a mouse by the name of Clark. “He even brought the poor hare to testify as witness to the existence of the terrible land called Krekenpyt.” At this point the others murmured their concurrence, said that the hare, whose word was above reproach, helped greatly in the fox’s case. Theirs was an opinion offered almost in one voice: “Yes, we should all have believed the hare,” they said. “We’ve never known him to speak in a false voice. And we WERE all just a bit skeptical about Krekenpyt, which until now was unknown to us.” Yes, the others agreed, Krekenpyt was a mystery.

So there was feasting, ordered by the king. The occasion of poor Cuthbert’s death did not warrant celebrating, but the prospect of fetching the wretched fox and bringing him back to face his due was cause for eating and dancing and merry-making. Everyone had a good time, and they even stomped the forest ground with the lively “Hovedance,” their movements gay and wild and without care. This writer believes that, there in the waning years of the Medieval times, the animals of that land danced with abandon, arm in arm, paw in paw, one partner to the next, and then switching back again. Years later, centuries and many waters raining down through the skies, over rugged precipices, and melts and hardships and glad tydings marking the passing of time, came what we now know as the “hoe-down.”

So, for the moment, the tale pauses, the animals are left to enjoy themselves in the woods, and I take up the thread of where I left off at the other house.

March 27, 2008

This morning I awoke with a strong wanting of more sleep.
“I’ll go see what can be done about the stairs,” I thought, “Before the rain starts.”
The sky was heavy with the threat of showers, was promising a moist outing, so I thought I would do a little more on the new stairs out front, then take a nap—possibly not getting up again for the rest of the day.

It did in fact rain. Just a little, not so much that I couldn’t continue with my work, so that’s what I did. Always, the promise of a nap was right around the corner.
“I’ll just finish up these little pieces of wood, get some odds and ends screwed in place, then rest,” I thought. I went like that throughout the day, stopping for lunch and a quick read of the paper, then back to work. By five-thirty the new steps were mostly done. I’d affixed the handrails to the sides, had cut off most of the excess length of the upright posts, and had even cut spindles to ornament the sides—four spindles on each side. Then I took the sturdy pieces of scrap metal from the defunct farm implement, heated two pieces to cherry red, and bent them into ninety-degree brackets to secure the two front posts to the concrete anchors in the ground. I then painted them a rust-inhibiting flat black and called it a day.

Later, I sketched some ideas for the kitchen and bath layout, and tried some drawings from the book entitled, “How to Draw Anything,” by the British woman who was fond of drawing her cat. It turns out that the only thing I am capable of drawing is a likeness of Charlie Brown the cartoon character—only depicted as an old man. He is fairly cranky, this older Charlie Brown, and is often given to outbursts.