It is worth repeating as it helps us to feel that some vindication will eventually come if only in our fantasies:
Peasant Pinguin Society says:Alternative History, Part Five, Wherein Misfortune comes to the Peasants of Redgrave Manor.
Disclosure: Major funding for the Peasant Pinguin Society is provided by The John D. and Catherine T. skippy Foundation, and by Ms G
The Year is 1348, and the place is Redgrave Manor, a village and a parish in Suffolk, England.
Well, all the Peasant children of Redgrave Manor were out planting trees one day, watering them and taking care of things, when suddenly the Trees all died. No one knows why they died, they just did. Something wrong with the soil perhaps. So now every Peasant kid who had his or her own little tree to plant was suddenly holding shriveled up brown sticks in their hands.
Well, this was bad, but not as bad as the Rumours we began hearing soon, in Voices Disconsolate, of a Pestilence most Terrible, coming our way from Villages along the Coast.
But we peasants did not have the Leisure nor Inclination to dwell on these Dangers. The animals had to be Tended, fields weeded, money earned and Goods bought. So to help the Children forget about the Trees, we let them take care of the Rabbits, while we went on with yoking the oxen and ploughing the Fields.
One morning, as we were yoking the Oxen, a short, freckl’d lad named Edgar came running up to tell us the Rabbits had all died. Well this was bad, but still it wasn’t too bad, not compared to the Rumours of sickness and Death coming this way from the neighboring Village.
So next we got the children a Puppy and they named it Sam. The children had lots of fun running after the Puppy and yelling, “Here, Sam! Nice Sam!” Then they’d laugh and say “Nice Sam, go fetch..”, and so we went back to Ploughing our fields.
But I had a bad feeling about it, and sure enough, about a week later, the Puppy died.
This was bad, there’s no denying it anymore, but no sooner had the Puppy died than a grey-bearded, wild-haired Prophet arrived in our Village, a most Holy man, with burning Black eyes. For many years, he had been living in a Cave, getting out upon Cold mornings, searching for roots and berries, occasionally trapping and killing animals with his bare hands.
With a booming Voice the Prophet told us “Death is scything its way through the Decadent cities of England. It will Destroy London and Cambridge and Thetford and Bury St Edmunds then come right here to Redford Manor, followed by all the World.”
Every few sentences he repeated: “And I looked and Beheld a pale Horse, and his name was Death.”
Most disturbing. That’s when I began to experience this frenzied collapsing sensation of all that I thought I had always known, almost as if we Peasants were Condemned. But what could you do, there was no time to dwell on the Trees or the Puppy or the Prophet or the Rumours, animals had to be tended, fields weeded, money earned and goods bought.
The next Day was when frekl’d little Edgar died, followed by his sister Susie, then Walter.
We were all Grief-Stricken, but once again, there was no time to Dwell on these Misfortunes, so we went back to yoking the Oxen, tending the animals (the ones that were still alive) weeding the fields in order to earn money, in order to buy goods.
The next thing we knew Death was Rampaging across the Whole Village of Redgrave Manor, sometimes taking as many as Fifty Villagers in a Single Day.
No priests could be found to perform Ministrations for the Dying, so we Peasants took this task upon ourselves. as well. There no physicians, so we treated those with buboes ourselves, by applying a warm poultice of butter, onion, and garlic, until we ran out onion, butter and garlic, at which point we began treating buboes with lily root and dried toad.
The peasant Children (the ones who were still Living) began to ask questions: Where did they all go? The Trees, the Rabbits, the Puppy, Edgar, Susie, Walter, our Mothers and Fathers and by now half the Village?
And we said to them, we don’t know, we don’t know, nobody knows.
And then one of the children, I think it was Geoffrey Rath’s son, William, asked us: “If I take death into my life, acknowledge it, and face it squarely, will this enable me to free myself from the anxiety of death and the pettiness of life – and then will I be free to become myself?”
Yes, perhaps, we said, but we had no Time to dwell on this question.
We had to yoke the Oxen, tend to the animals that were still Living, and weed the fields in order to earn money, in order to buy goods.
Here Endeth Alternate History, Part Five.
Footnote: This story was partly inspired by a Donald Barthelme short story, entilted “The School”. The question posed by young Geoffrey Rath’s son, William, is based on a quote (translated from German) by the philosopher Martin Heidegger, slightly paraphrased.
Disclaimer: Alternate history is a genre of fiction consisting of stories that are set in worlds in which history has diverged from the actual history of the world.
