Who Is The Fool Now?

Note: This is story is based on the legend of Gotham, Nottinghamshire in the 13th century. All characters, apart from the references of King John and Robin Hood, are fictitious. To pronounce ‘Gotham,’ it is Goat-em.

One day, the folk of Gotham, Nottinghamshire, came to church with the expectation of morning prayers and communion. Instead, the priest gave them all grave news: King John wanted to build a hunting lodge near their village, and the locals were going to pay for its construction.

Nobody expected such a thing to happen in a place like this, a ten-mile stretch of land sequestered under oak trees, known as a home for goats. It had no fortresses, no cathedrals, no royalty, nothing. Why in Gotham of all places? Purses barely jingled here.

The congregation trudged through the church doors. It turned out it wasn’t just their souls that needed to be saved.

Needing a drink and some time to gather their bearings, the congregation poured into the tavern and sat around a table. The landlord and lady of the tavern, William and Anges, usually remained behind the bar as it was their duty to serve and entertain, but since this was a matter affecting the future of their village, the pair filled their own tankards and joined them.

After so much talking between them, Giles the Shepherd fumed while slamming his fist on the tabletop, rattling everyone’s drinks. ‘This is about land! This is about taxes!’

‘Where is Robin Hood when we need him?’ Lettice said, drawing her fingers around the brim of her cup. ‘I think we should send a message to him and see if he could help us!’

Agnes said, ‘But by the time the messenger had reached Robin, the king would’ve already reached Gotham. It would’ve been far too late.’

‘But there is no harm in trying,’ Lettice said under her breath.

Giles said, ‘But what do you think Robin can do for us, exactly? Steal back our taxes from him? That sounds all well and good, but what about the land? The king will be building a highway for his retinue to pass through, for goodness' sake! Even if we do have our coin back, the landscape would be in disarray.’

‘We need to stop him before he sets foot in here. It seems to be the only way,’ William said. A dense silence hung over them. Questions and speculations weighed against their minds. The longer the stillness, the deeper their worries descended into quicksand.

Giles’ cheeks reddened; his knuckles turned white. ‘Come on, man! We must think! If we don’t find a way to get rid of the bloody king, I’m going to go mad, and that’s not going to do the village any good.’

An answer sparked within Agnes. She touched William’s shoulder, and he startled and almost knocked over his drink. In the candlelight, a comet fired across Agnes’ eyes.

‘William, Giles, get everyone together in the tavern as soon as possible. If we can all work together, the king will think we’re so foolish that he’ll think we’re contagious! He’ll never dare to come anywhere near us!’

*

Laurence, the king’s royal architect, arrived in Gotham. King John sent him there to have a deeper exploration of the area to seek a plot of land that could accommodate the hunting lodge. Acres of fields flanked the dirt roads that paved towards the village. Hills rolled towards the panoramic view of the low-hanging clouds. Ideally, for a hunting lodge, it should be built in an area where woodland was accessible, but distant enough for the king to not be in proximity to the locals. Any plot of land around Gotham could meet those requirements.

Laurence approached the Nottingham bridge, and a resident crossed from the other side. The man smelled of cheese, so Laurence assumed he was a dairy farmer. Laurence tipped his head to say hello, but as they were about to pass each other, the dairy farmer’s purse split at the seams. A wheel of cheese fell out and rolled across the bridge and vanished under the shade of the oaks.

Laurence went to retrieve the cheese, but the dairy farmer shouted after him: ‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll sort it out.’

‘Oh? Are you sure, my good fellow?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the dairy farmer, but he didn’t make a start finding it. Instead, he pulled out another wheel of cheese, balanced it on the stone footbridge, and pushed it towards the woods. ‘Go forth, my good cheese! I will meet you two at the market!’

The cheese rattled across the stonework and disappeared within the trees.

Laurence looked at the dairy farmer, then at the forest, and then back at the dairy farmer. The dairy farmer draped his empty purse over his shoulder and hunched over as if it were still heavy.

Laurence said, ‘Um, my good man, why did you do that?’

The dairy farmer tilted his head. ‘Why did I do what?’

Laurence pointed to the end of the footbridge where the cheeses disappeared. ‘Why did you push your cheese away?’

The dairy farmer’s eyes flashed as if he just remembered. ‘Oh! Why, it’s so the cheese can find the other cheese, and they will go to the market together.’

‘But … but cheeses don’t know how to find each other. Cheeses can’t go to the market by themselves.’

The dairy farmer tutted at Laurence. ‘I’d lower my voice if I were you, or otherwise the cheeses will catch what you say in the wind.’

Before Laurence rebuked him, the dairy farmer had already crossed the bridge and entered the forest. Laurence shook his head.

What was he here for again? Oh yes, finding a plot of land for the hunting lodge. That was it.

Laurence proceeded to roam to Gotham along the riverbank. A frog ribbited nearby, and some long grass rustled when the amphibian leapt into the water. Fireflies glided along the surface; their reflections joined them on their soirée.

He walked further until he saw two men leaning over the riverbank. Between them, a snake thrashed in the water, spraying them and the surrounding plants.

‘Drown, you vile thing! Drown!’ one of the men yelled.

Laurence walked past them, thinking nothing of it.

His throat turned arid. He needed to find a tavern.

The royal architect walked so far that thatched buildings began to replace the trees. He walked past the church, its spires and turrets were a crown against the sun; butterflies fluttered around the tombs. Maybe the king would like to attend its services every once in a while. Between him and God, Laurence believed the king would greatly benefit from it, considering the sovereign’s desire for heavier purses. Alas, he was just an architect, not an advisor. At the end of the day, he knew nothing about what was good for the king. To be honest, in times like these, it seemed no one knew either, not even King John himself.

Laurence found the tavern around the corner, and his pace quickened towards the door until a cuckoo cawed from further up the road.

The bird perched on a bush while William and Giles built a hedge around it. The bird tilted its head as though to study the wooden structure, and it flew off.

‘Curse her!’ Giles snapped. ‘The hedge is not high enough!’

William caught Laurence’s eyes and offered an exhausted smile, as if Laurence would understand and sympathise with their endeavour.

‘May I ask, my good men, what are you doing to that bird?’ asked Laurence.

William said, ‘We’re trying to capture the cuckoo.’

‘For what reason?’

‘So that we will have spring all year round.’

Was Laurence hearing this right? ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean by that?’

‘Exactly what I said,’ William replied.

Giles chimed in, ‘We shan’t have summer all year round, can we?’

‘Or any other seasons of the year,’ William pointed out.

‘Exactly. When the cuckoo is contained and it sings for us, we’ll have an abundance of beautiful weather. Our crops will greatly welcome it.’

Those poor, ignorant men. Oh, they were so misinformed. ‘My good men, cuckoos are a symbol for spring, not a literal embodiment of it. Even if you do somehow managed to contain the bird, I’m afraid the cuckoo will only sing when it wants to, and the rest of the seasons are still going to fall upon us.’

Giles and William froze. Looked at each other. Giles shook his head at Laurence. ‘You’re only saying that because you like the other seasons.’

Before Laurence argued against him, the tavern door opened, and Agnes and Lettice stepped out. A hare struggled in Lettice’s arms, and it kicked her to loosen her grip, but Lettice had greater success in holding the hare than William and Giles caging the cuckoo. Once Agnes secured the purse around the hare’s neck and knotted it with a bow, Lettice put the animal down, and the hare dashed past Laurence and the two men, the purse jingling to the rhythm of its feet.

‘Go forth, my good hare! Don’t keep the taxman waiting!’ Agnes called after it. The hare burst through a bush and raced across a crop field. Its jingles tapered in the distance. Agnes spotted Laurence, smiled sweetly, and waved at him. ‘Don’t forget to give your taxes to your local hare, my good sir, or otherwise it shall never arrive on time!’

Laurence turned on his heel and walked away, abandoning the idea of going to the tavern. Lord knew what idiocy would wait for him in there. He walked past the church again and through the footpath in the rustic outskirts.

A horse clopped towards him. Laurence stepped aside in the nettles to let the horse and its rider go past. In closer inspection, the rider balanced a bushel of hay over the nape of his neck and shoulders.

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ the rider said, his face reddened from the effort of steadying the bushel on top of him.

Laurence’s back ached by the sight of him. ‘Excuse me, my good sir, but why are you carrying this bushel?’

The rider smiled at him from under the hay. ‘So that my horse doesn’t have to carry it herself.’

Laurence massaged his scalp as though to ease the tension rising in his skull. ‘Why shouldn’t your horse carry it?’

‘I didn’t want her to be burdened by it, so I took on the heavy load myself.’

The royal architect hurried past without offering a word of farewell. He needed to get away before the locals’ insanity deteriorated his own mind. Insanity was just as contagious as the cold, but the difference between the two was he could recover from a cold; insanity was forever.

Along the riverbank, the two men were still trying to drown the snake. But as Laurence came closer, he froze. His jaw snapped open.

It wasn’t a snake at all.

It was an eel!

Who was going to tell them that eels were aquatic animals? What on Earth was this village?

No. No, this place was not safe for the king at all. Already, the denizens of the kingdom perceived the king as illogical and cruel, but if he built his hunting lodge here, the insanity polluting the village would infect him to the point of no return. Even Laurence’s logic began to slip away by voluntarily trying to reason with those who couldn’t be reasoned with.

To save the king, the man responsible for the country, Laurence needed to save himself.

*

The men with the eel watched the architect scarper across the footbridge and tripped over a jutting stone. Behind his back, the men released the eel and pointed and laughed at him.

*

The congregation returned to church the Sunday after. After morning prayers and communion, the priest gave them the news the villagers had longed for.

‘His Majesty is no longer building a hunting lodge in Gotham. Our village’s newfound reputation for madness has scared him away!’

The congregation flew through the church doors. Their village had been saved.

That night, all the wine bottles had emptied, and the punters zigzagged through the streets to find their way home; some of them collapsed in the bushes while others managed to reach their dwellings but slumped on their doorsteps.

A headache started a fire in Agnes and William’s skulls, and they couldn’t leave their beds without spewing over the concrete floors, but it didn’t matter. Everything was going to be okay. For as long as the palace believed the locals were mad, nobody would dare to interfere with their village, their land, their taxes, and their peace.

So, who was the real fool now?