Monday, December 25, 2006
At the request of a friend of mine.
NOTE: All language translated to modern English, including place names.
Once, in fifteen fourteen, I stepped out of the TARDIS that a friend of mine let me borrow. It was cleverly disguised as an azalea bush, since its chameleon circuit was working fine, of course.
I blinked at the setting English sun, adjusted my overcoat and aviators, and looked for the second time at the small village of Nottinghamshiretonville. The first time I was there, sixty-three years later, nothing notable happened. This time was different.
Since this was Elizabethan England, I doffed the specs and took a closer look around. The place was deserted.
I frowned in confusion. There was at least, I did some quick calculations, half an hour of daylight left. There should be a flurry of activity as shops closed, merchants packaged their wares, and children were called home to be scolded for having played in mud.
But it was a ghost town. Completely dead.
Being the keen investigative mind I am, I decided to see what was amiss. As is the standard operation procedure for such situations, I headed straight for the largest and healthiest-looking cottage, since that's usually where the mayor lived. I reached for the dull brass knocker, but drew back because I noticed a fine layer of dust.
I leaned forward to take a closer look, and heard a piercing shriek.
Momentarily distracted from my doorman duties, I glanced at the source of the ghostly wail.
A middle-aged woman, with a rough braid in her greying hair, was leaning on her windowsill, gasping for breath. I couldn't blame her, as she had just expelled enough air to fill several weather balloons.
I heard a commotion in what I could only assume was her house, her being in it and all, and suddenly an older man clad in a dressing gown and some very thick, very stout boots exploded out the front door. He, in an admirable effort for one his age, sprinted toward me and vaulted over a couple of hedges.
Before I could question what such properly-trimmed bushes were doing in sixteenth-century England, the amateur Olympian tackled me. Normally, I would not have been had so easily, but the sight of this guy, running full tilt at me, pajamas flapping in the wind...
It was unusual, to say the least, and it caught me off-guard.
As the man pinned me to the ground, I noticed for the first time how large his eyebrows were. They weren't in need of a good plucking, the needed a good mowing. These brows reminded me of the summer I spent in the Amazon, only the rain forest wasn't quite so bushy. I was almost certain that a family of gnomes was in each eyebrow. I was tempted to poke one with a stick to see if it would growl at me, or just take the stick and beat me over the head with it. What I'm trying to say here is they were large.
"Are you crazy, kid?!" he said, inches away from my face.
[Remember, I'm translating all dialogue, terminology, and measurements into modern English.]
Still transfixed by his massive sincipital follicles, all I could come up with was a hearty "Uuuhhhh..."
"You're new here, aren't you?"
I shook my head, not to answer negatively, but to clear it, and answered in perfect period English, "Yep. Mind if I come in?"
Having a very strong cup of tea in his home, the man filled me in. Apparently, there was an evil, golden-haired witch that had been casting spell after spell, bringing all kind of dark misfortune upon the small village of Nottinghamshiretonville, with early winters, sick livestock, bad harvests, all caused by the arrival of this malevolent being a few years ago. They stayed away from the witch in the hopes that they wouldn't offend her in some way, and left gifts periodically to please her.
I of course took this to mean some poor woman moved into town at the same time as a run of bad luck, and got blamed for every last stubbed toe ever since.
I saw an opportunity to do some good for a change, and offered my assistance with the "witch."
Raucous laughter was not the reaction I expected.
"You are crazy, boy. That witch will skin you alive, grind your bones, and use it as flower for bread!"
"No, actually, you're thinking of a giant."
"What? No, seriously, kid, you'd have to be nuts to even consider such a course of action."
"Care to make it interesting?"
"..."
"Yes, I mean a wager."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean, I'll vanquish the "witch" for a nominal fee, and if I fail, you can keep...uh...this magical watch!"
He looked at me like I was insane or something.
"Oh, right, sixteenth century...uh, this...magic...vision...thing."
I held up a Gameboy Color.
He just stared at the yellow plastic until I thought to turn it on.
He fell back in his chair at the sight of the Gamefreaks logo, and I knew I had a deal.
...At least, that's what I'd like to type. The truth is, it took me several hours to convince him that I wasn't a demon, and even longer to strike an acceptable bargain.
Satisfied, I left his house and went up to the "witch's" house, only stopping for one last piece of advice, shouted to me by the man I affectionately dubbed Murphy. He never told me his name, and it's a rather obscure Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door reference, which is always good.
"One last thing! Stop putting quotes around the word "witch" when you say it! She won't like that!"
To be continued...
[I bet you're wondering where this is going. I'm kind of interested as well.]
Once, in fifteen fourteen, I stepped out of the TARDIS that a friend of mine let me borrow. It was cleverly disguised as an azalea bush, since its chameleon circuit was working fine, of course.
I blinked at the setting English sun, adjusted my overcoat and aviators, and looked for the second time at the small village of Nottinghamshiretonville. The first time I was there, sixty-three years later, nothing notable happened. This time was different.
Since this was Elizabethan England, I doffed the specs and took a closer look around. The place was deserted.
I frowned in confusion. There was at least, I did some quick calculations, half an hour of daylight left. There should be a flurry of activity as shops closed, merchants packaged their wares, and children were called home to be scolded for having played in mud.
But it was a ghost town. Completely dead.
Being the keen investigative mind I am, I decided to see what was amiss. As is the standard operation procedure for such situations, I headed straight for the largest and healthiest-looking cottage, since that's usually where the mayor lived. I reached for the dull brass knocker, but drew back because I noticed a fine layer of dust.
I leaned forward to take a closer look, and heard a piercing shriek.
Momentarily distracted from my doorman duties, I glanced at the source of the ghostly wail.
A middle-aged woman, with a rough braid in her greying hair, was leaning on her windowsill, gasping for breath. I couldn't blame her, as she had just expelled enough air to fill several weather balloons.
I heard a commotion in what I could only assume was her house, her being in it and all, and suddenly an older man clad in a dressing gown and some very thick, very stout boots exploded out the front door. He, in an admirable effort for one his age, sprinted toward me and vaulted over a couple of hedges.
Before I could question what such properly-trimmed bushes were doing in sixteenth-century England, the amateur Olympian tackled me. Normally, I would not have been had so easily, but the sight of this guy, running full tilt at me, pajamas flapping in the wind...
It was unusual, to say the least, and it caught me off-guard.
As the man pinned me to the ground, I noticed for the first time how large his eyebrows were. They weren't in need of a good plucking, the needed a good mowing. These brows reminded me of the summer I spent in the Amazon, only the rain forest wasn't quite so bushy. I was almost certain that a family of gnomes was in each eyebrow. I was tempted to poke one with a stick to see if it would growl at me, or just take the stick and beat me over the head with it. What I'm trying to say here is they were large.
"Are you crazy, kid?!" he said, inches away from my face.
[Remember, I'm translating all dialogue, terminology, and measurements into modern English.]
Still transfixed by his massive sincipital follicles, all I could come up with was a hearty "Uuuhhhh..."
"You're new here, aren't you?"
I shook my head, not to answer negatively, but to clear it, and answered in perfect period English, "Yep. Mind if I come in?"
Having a very strong cup of tea in his home, the man filled me in. Apparently, there was an evil, golden-haired witch that had been casting spell after spell, bringing all kind of dark misfortune upon the small village of Nottinghamshiretonville, with early winters, sick livestock, bad harvests, all caused by the arrival of this malevolent being a few years ago. They stayed away from the witch in the hopes that they wouldn't offend her in some way, and left gifts periodically to please her.
I of course took this to mean some poor woman moved into town at the same time as a run of bad luck, and got blamed for every last stubbed toe ever since.
I saw an opportunity to do some good for a change, and offered my assistance with the "witch."
Raucous laughter was not the reaction I expected.
"You are crazy, boy. That witch will skin you alive, grind your bones, and use it as flower for bread!"
"No, actually, you're thinking of a giant."
"What? No, seriously, kid, you'd have to be nuts to even consider such a course of action."
"Care to make it interesting?"
"..."
"Yes, I mean a wager."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean, I'll vanquish the "witch" for a nominal fee, and if I fail, you can keep...uh...this magical watch!"
He looked at me like I was insane or something.
"Oh, right, sixteenth century...uh, this...magic...vision...thing."
I held up a Gameboy Color.
He just stared at the yellow plastic until I thought to turn it on.
He fell back in his chair at the sight of the Gamefreaks logo, and I knew I had a deal.
...At least, that's what I'd like to type. The truth is, it took me several hours to convince him that I wasn't a demon, and even longer to strike an acceptable bargain.
Satisfied, I left his house and went up to the "witch's" house, only stopping for one last piece of advice, shouted to me by the man I affectionately dubbed Murphy. He never told me his name, and it's a rather obscure Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door reference, which is always good.
"One last thing! Stop putting quotes around the word "witch" when you say it! She won't like that!"
To be continued...
[I bet you're wondering where this is going. I'm kind of interested as well.]
# posted by jdogmoney @ 7:18 PM 
