Leaves mount the wind. Trees dance and sway...
Endless clouds hide the stars. The mountains and the forest surround the little village.
More isolated still, off by itself... stands the castle.
It's a sturdy estate of dark grey stone. The wall enclosing it is thrice as tall as a man. The scullery-gate looks as though it hasn't been opened in decades.
The main gate opens only at the word of the master. But for the uncommon excursion, he stays inside.
This suits him and the villagers, who distrust him - but not his money. Orders arrive under the merchants' doors at night. Thick parchment envelopes, with carefully lettered lists, golden coins...
They are fair men, and true. Every few fortnights, the grocer sends a cart 'round for the orders they've filled. His men unload it at the back gate - dawdling not, in view of that imposing structure! - and rattle back over the hill. If ever there were servants at the castle, the townspeople never see them. But how could such a manor be kept without hired help?
As the master's need and nature of provisions changed, the merchants' wives smiled to themselves. A wife. Quite astonishing, if the rumors about the master were true!
But the spending became lavish. Further curiosity might be chancy, in light of the windfall.
The young lady became accustomed to her new home. She grew to love the misshapen, hulking man who had all but kidnapped her. The heart of the master was softened by his love for her...
Their story is the thing of legend.
Another tale of their castle is not told... being known to no man, save one.
It begins the midsummer after the arrival of the young maiden.
On the eastern edge of the grounds, where the orchard stands, the trees were heavy with fruit - and such fruit! So large, and sweet. Harvested and put by for the master each year, to last the whole blustery winter.
The apple trees stand nearest the wall. A cheery sight...
Perhaps too inviting, for some wandering souls.
There is such a man, who was orphaned young. Grown full and strong, he loves the forest... all its lanes and copses - more even than the company of the townsfolk, friendly enough though they are. No, the traveller's life is for him. They know him to be a good man, willing to work hard and cheerily in exchange for ale and tobacco, a hot meal. The barmaids smile at him when his dark eyes are shining in a certain wild way, and one or two in each village are ever ready to sneak into a hayloft with him for a toss...
He lives by his wits in the forest. No brigand or wastrel, but not either a monk. This is how they know him, in the villages. Not surprised by his visits or his lengthy sojourns down the lane.
Twice in his travels he passed the east wall and filled his game-bag with underripe apples. This was far too small of a thing for concern. And, 'struth, the branches hang over the wall... But the apples are lovingly grown for the master - and now, his lady as well.
After the vagabond's second harvest, the branches were carefully cleared of their enticements.
He next chanced by, after a day of sawing wood and a night of easy carousing, when the fruit was falling from the boughs. But none for him -
That is, until he built a rude ladder, humming to himself.
Watched with bafflement as he crept, like a fly, up and over. Bringing his ladder as he came... Espying the choicest apples, and filling his sack full again.
The master was away. No one had ever shown such impertinence. Entering the manor unbidden!
It was beyond the pale.
Cautiously, a muslin sack floated into the air, and opened wide behind him. It usually carried fruit to the kitchen...
But with a swift dive and a flip, it carried a fruit-thief there instead.
He started to yell. As the master was gone, this posed no problem. His maiden was in the library, on the other side of the castle.
A small barrow accepted his game-bag full of apples, as it was speared and lifted by a rake. It trundled along behind him...
The mop was quite surprised, to say the least.
The bagged interloper was kicking wildly. And ever making more noise. Disturbing the mistress of the house would not do, so the mop surrendered strips of itself and brought them to the ready. A length of cord, naturally inquisitive about the commotion, came into the scullery, and gladly prepared to assist...
The sack whisked itself off suddenly.
The cloth strips jammed themselves between his teeth. The cord leaped about his wrists. As he become outraged about being thus hobbled (or maybe it was the fetid taste on his tongue), it was well that the cord did a noble and sacrificial thing. Snapping asunder, it made short work of binding his ankles as well.
The churl sat on the floor and flailed about. The implements, being unfamiliar with such a humour, marvelled as if he was doxy. It was beyond their ken.
The mop went upstairs, silently, to seek advice.
It wished to seek out the master's greatcoat, a venerable source of wisdom - but naturally it was travelling with him. Some other seasoned possession, then.
As it entered the dressing-chamber, where it had seldom been, it espied the room...
And its pother was plainly evident. In an open wardrobe, a pair of dark forms responded. Arising from their shelf and striking the posture they were accustomed to, they floated out to the mop.
It was suddenly torn between two minds. While it craved the counsel of some more worldly thing than itself, it thought of the cocksure responders as almost too worldly. There was a... wildness in them.
But they were true enough, so it beckoned them to follow.
The thief, upon seeing them float into the scullery, become vexed anew.
They were black and smooth, with the texture of well-churned butter. Black as a moonless night, and limber.
The master's second-best gloves.
A wee bit tight on his hands, now, despite doing all they could to stretch. They had been waiting on the shelf for months, ready for his need...
And now they studied the prisoner.
For a moment, the mop was of the notion that they masked a great joy. But the idea was soon gone, or set aside, as they naturally (and respectfully) took on an air of confidence. Of... command.
This is a matter which cannot be swept into the hearth, the gloves announced. In any other manor, the varlet would be whipped and sent on his way. But the master is known for the greatness and mercy of his heart. And yet this must be handled, else other thieves be emboldened...
The listening implements, much relieved at the manner of the gloves, fairly cheered. (Not in a manner than the thief could learn, for they shared a language used only when human ears were not to be troubled.)
Have a care for the maiden, the gloves said. Before she is fraught with concern, this knave should be placed where his ravings will not reach her delicate ear. This is not a matter for her, they said most firmly, lest she grow anxious. By our counsel, she would never learn of the nuisance you have so deftly snared.
And the objects all approved.
We will take him to the wine-cellar, the gloves said, catching hold of his arms. Beseeching the kitchen-dwellers to take no further notice - and to say nothing of his presence - they took him away, after many more assurances they would make the thief see reason. Leave he must, for once and all, after he has craved pardon to our satisfaction, they deemed sternly. Else he would have to be held until the master should return and deal with him. As no invader had ever breached the castle grounds before, the burden upon their master - whom all dearly loved! - could be grievous...
Leaving them to ponder, the gloves carried him downstairs.
The wine cellar was cool and quiet. Removing the slimy cloth, the gloves asked tankard and cask to draw him a manly serving. He was glad for it, at first... But desiring no more, he began to squirm. We have reason to know his need is yet greater, the gloves said. Kindly have him drain the tankard. And another.
So they did.
Within a few minutes, he was in less of a frenzy. The mop, still concerned about the unusual events, tapped on the door...
As his head lolled, the gloves spoke plainly to all. The thief must not return - or, better, he must not disturb the master. Even the mop could see the sense of that. If the household items had a care, and dealt with the thief safely -
Truth be told, the gloves murmured, we worry about burdening our owner with this sorry news... at a time when his romance is going so well, too - and more's the pity if their flow'ring love should bear the hurt.
No fear struck the mop so severely as that of the master's unhappiness. For many long years, they all had pined over the loneliness he knew.
We trust this poltroon can surely be dealt with, the gloves said. As we have the victory, there is no call to get the master in a pother. The mop agreed gladly, as did the others there. There is a way, the gloves did ponder, to teach the lad proper respect. It needs the cooperation of certain items around the manor - and theirs only, for to blab is like unto fretting those we most cherish.
This was troubling for the mop, since secrets were not customary there. But it admitted that not all furnishings in the library knew what was afoot in the kitchen, to take but one example. In the end it considered too the great closeness and guardianship the sudden leaders had shown, protecting the master's very hands. So as to spare the doting couple any interruption of their bliss, the mop then agreed cheerfully. After the talk turned to sundry needs it went to bring a few discreet items into their private counsels.
When it had departed, the gloves turned and faced the thief again. Cord, can you ready yourself to quell his vigour?, they said cheerily. Hold him tightly?
With a good will, the cord answered.
Then 'ware - and they did a most curious thing. Clasping his arms again, they travelled down to the joining of each shoulder and side -
The lad grew wild!
For a few moments, the gloves caressed him through his tunic. When they released him, he quieted from the feverish movements and wailing... his face showing great alarm.
Hail and well met, the gloves mused, with a satisfaction almost dire.
The cord was puzzled. What was that, O gloves? Is he taken ill?
Nay - did he not seem enraptured? As you held him tight?
The cord allowed as he had.
We have seen curious things while journeying with our master, the gloves replied. In a distant land, the wrongdoers are made to see reason in most... unreasonable ways.
Do tell!, the restraining string implored.
On a dark night, we chanced upon a village where there was a commons of short grass. Upon it, men dozed. And women. Judged for their offenses, they were held fast in cunning ways, some deprived of their tunics... others, of their boots. There were feathers all about. Oil shone on their skin. The constabularies had seemingly ordered them to be tormented in a most unusual way -
Tormented?, the cord mused, finding the story to be rather grim but not without intrigue.
Espying this, the gloves became gentle in tone. Nay, their bodies were unharmed. No stripe was seen. But the scoundrels slept soundly, as if their day's work had been hard. Long had we wondered about all those feathers.
And now?
This lad shares the same affliction, the gloves said, adopting a tone of pity. He seems all but insensible when he's... touched.
The cord, having contained his great vexation, could naught but agree.
Curious, the gloves judged it, and the cord allowed that it was. We wish to learn more about this condition, said they.
After a moment, the cord asked if they were driven by their wish to... protect the master, from the highlanders and others which roved about.
Reckoning quickly, they agreed. Why, good cord - you have put the matter rightly! What a great thing we could do, to guard the young mistress, if we learned all manner of ways to rebuff the savages. Are you with us?
With a good will, the cord swore.
We have to arrange this chance, then. Let us have him fed - and even favor him as a much-loved guest. Our own personal guest. Then we shall see what wisdom we can curry. Best of cords... meaning no grief to your faithful service - it seems he will need far stronger bonds.
Hold his legs, the cord said, and I will return with sturdy cousins...
The mop whispered to crockery that could be trusted not to blab, and they brought him good meat.
Hence his eyes grew big when a cigar was brought him! Yet truly he saw no other course, but to smoke and so take his leisure - while he was able.
There was a brisk bustling of activity well below his chamber. The lowest level of rooms, which the master had ever shunned.
Neglected doors were opened, and tended. The mop and its allies raced to and anon, scrubbing until the rough bricks shone.
Furniture there was, of a sinister fashion. It was cleaned of all moss and rust.
Caught in snug ropes, the lad was favorable toward his cigar. His face fell when the gloves reentered the room...
As he was lifted the cigar did fall from his teeth, so much did he wriggle. After it was returned and fingers delivered a quick poke on the chest, he thought again and bit it like a man.
Back up to the kitchen he went.
All can see he has been treated kindly, the gloves announced. His mood is humbled, and henceforth he will take care to honor our orchard. So we will see him on his... merry way.
The loudest cheer of all went up, and the gloves took him out through the scullery door.
They carried him over the wall, and replaced the rancid cloths so he was kept from crying out. With great stealth, they took him round the south way, close by the orchard of which he was overfond.
Back over the wall again, in the shadow of the apple trees...
Slowly, by way of the darkest parts of the yard, he flew back to the castle. The north side, where few windows had been cut.
An old door of beaten metal stood open. Awaiting. It was a small matter to take him there.
Low in the wall it was, and not even an item of the household saw it swing closed. The clotted layer of ivy swung back down, covering the door as it ever has, time out of mind.
So he was taken downstairs. Torches flickered gaily on the walls. The new-swept hall showed him eight sealed doors...
And one open. The largest of the chambers. In he went, bound tight by the stalwart rope, following the dark gloves - his dungeon-masters that were ordering many hard, strange hours to come.
The bench was ready. Old coverlets were happy to snuggle under his straining form. The black fingers removed the cloth from his mouth and cast it away.
When the fit came upon him, the writhing and maddened howls of protest... all just waited for him to grow quiet and still.
A collection of tools awaited their uses, puzzled and yet astir with excitement. Checking again the lock upon the door, the gloves were yet the most delighted of all.
We are good servants of our master, they began - and we have much to learn here, if greater perils are to be dealt with...
For the good of the master and his beloved, the implements all begged, do say on.
Then mark this, they roared happily. We deem he needs no tunic when he abides with us. Or those boots.
As the garments were removed, the ropes took care to hold him fast. Saluting them, the gloves implored that his limbs were to be unmoving, and not permitted to rise. Then they paused over him... and let the fateful moment wax long ere they spoke to the assembled company.
To harry the innocent is bad form. But this thief would take the fruit from our master's table, and munch it in a copse before a mean fire. Even thieves must eat - so we will feed this one well. We beseech all who hear, in the name of our master, that this rogue is not free of guile.
It is just as you say, the items answered back.
He deigns to eat our apples... then let him earn them.
A jape went up... And then -
On behalf of the owner we so love, let us pass a doom upon this thief. As the lash is banned forever from this estate, we have concocted another plan. The thief shall have time stolen from him. Composure. Let a thousand - nay! A thousand thousand lashes be given... of the feather. He will be gladdened witless, and this sternly taught. The feather, the brush - and the finger. Mark it.
We do, the chosen belongings cried. Now make plain what is the manner of the doom.
Hark! And with that inviting command, the fingers did come down.
The lad's feet were their targets. Upon spying their path, he fought and screamed anew.
But the gloves did not punch or pull. They gently began to... rub, and sweep most lightly.
He immediately began to laugh. The sound was a further reward, for items who had so rarely heard their owner laugh... until lately, of the joy his lady kindled.
This - the gloves declared, as if reckoning with a circle of new apprentices - is what the barbarians call "tickling".
The pack of household items was a devoted audience.
While the lad moved like one daft, and showed in his the countenance the desire to run far into the forest - his noises told the true and marvelous tale. He laughed like a pine split, well-kindled by the fire. The ropes held him with care. As the gloves tickled and tickled, he roared with the lust of a man revelling in the fondest dream of all his days. The reply to all of his inward questions was in that laughter.
The items learning this art were well-nigh in fits of delight.
The gloves were most joyous of all. The fair movements of their fingers did always bring drastic recompense. They had scarce dared to dream of such a romp. The reward for their caresses was towering bliss. These captured feet, and the whole of his maddened frame, were hidden safe in the dungeon, theirs for the tickling.
How can this be, the summoned implements wondered. Such is his delight that he can scarce lay still...
Indeed, a feather-duster murmured, pondering him. He laughs as if he's unmanned. But how could the perambulations of his limbs - and his face, wet with tears - be those of happiness?
All thought turned to the gloves, marking well their response.
It was a moment to make all others. In their fashion, they were mooncalf over the newfound need being slaked by the maddening of his besieged feet. But they were nimble too, in more than one manner.
You wonder at his ways. We beseech your pardon, for this question was once so to us. But hear and we will tell all. There are villages of men at the edge of the sea, which we know from long travels with the master. They are a fierce people, and proud. Their legend sternly talks against... the craven hunt for pleasure. Small joys they will seek, but not the great.
From their whelping they are taught to turn from the strength and wealth of pleasure - such as we now give him. It is a curious hard thing, isn't it? Our young cur must be one of those water-men. Perchance he learned his lessons but too well. Simple delights he will take... but like his people, only the trifling ones. He would refuse himself the sweet pain of this most savage delight - and us, in the same stroke.
But a plate still lingered upon the anguish of his brow. The world is a big and strange place, but indeed as strange as all that? The gloves could plainly tell it mostly wished to embrace the tale they had told - that it fought to agree...
All of you. Heed us now, the gloves cried. Has the master ever laughed when he was not happy? Ever?
A plain risk, to use such cheek. But none answered them.
Think well upon our mistress too. No? We tell you, a human's true joy is marked by his laugh. The harder the fit, the more truly pleased he is. You hear this crazed, gleeful bawd and still doubt?
That was all. Each item looked on him fondly, and heard the revelry. And was glad. Sure of the easy truth they witnessed...
Warm from their artful words, the gloves squeezed and danced upon his ruddy soles. Their listeners were firmly in league with them now. 'Twas a far more chancy thing to hide the thief and enjoy him if the other items were beset with doubts. But against all hope, the roving fingers now had a room full of friends in their bawdy pursuit. In this marvellous passion, the gloves held the mastery. Over him - in all ways. Ideas of great and savage fun came upon them like a torrent.
The diverse tickling was scarce but begun.
Good possessions of the manor, we shall caress him until he must slumber. Then let us keep him so wild and happy that he roars thusly until the morn.
In their private thoughts, they added... And his days shall be filled henceforth.
How much harder can this thief laugh?, a hair-comb proclaimed with fond excitement.
We must find out, the gloves roared, floating to his sweat-slicked belly.
Many hours later, his breeches were removed.
The gloves were most curious about a thing they'd seen from their dark shelf... a rough ministration their master had performed on his own loins.
It was only a few minutes later - and the varlet made water, but of a different hue.
As bewildering as that was, his ticklishness after became a vast, giddy rage.
When he finally slept, the gloves took thread, needle... and many yards of dense, shiny silk.
They continued their efforts with furs, tender goat-hides, fine linen.
In the way of the manor, the newly created items were filled with life and perambulation.
Hark, said the gloves, and three score of like-shaped ticklers did hear them. We have crafted you for a most delightful task...
Oils were mixed. Tools and toys were made - then, made to move.
His rollicking laughter enlivened the dark hallway of the dungeon. Layers of stone deadened the hard, happy sounds - shielding the master and his betrothed from the burden of reckoning.
The mop came ever down there, to savor the melody of his joy.
Within those magic walls, he was revivified each day. The vigor of his youth was replenished by just a little sleep, some meat and ale, and the apple he was fed, with high pomp - such fruit being his true wages there.
The thief's body was kept strong, his voice hale and lusty.
Brute laughter rang off the cold stone.
Picks and trowels did a wondrous thing for his comfort. Finding a passage which ran behind five of the dungeon cells, they fashioned a tunnel from the old fireplace. Heat for his chambers... and the smoke was sent up the main chimney, mixing with that of the grand hearth upstairs.
Thus were the cells kept cozy enough for his entertainment through the ardent winter.
The counting of his thousand thousand lashes was a hard task, as all the items tickling him were ever losing track in their fervor.
After many tries, the tally was kept no more.
As the maiden prepared for her wedding, the master had less need of his solitary comforts, which was seemly.
So could the thief be provisioned comfortably - from the master's casks and humidors - without any being the wiser. The chief ticklers saw to it that he knew no lack of cigars and other treats.
The regiment of guards devoted each dungeon-room to a different tickling game.
Most mornings, a door was unlocked, swinging out -
The sniggering thief appeared. Oil and sweat gleamed on his pale, shaven skin - but for his head, where the hair was shaggy and tangled.
He chirruped as dark hands carried him, so others could ever stroke and clasp.
Addled, undone, he could not stand and walk - as he could naught repel the ticklers! - so the items did him the service of bearing him.
To the feather-room today, perhaps. Yes.
Through the entry they bore him, tittering as he goes...
The stout door was closed.
A moment... and his laughter rang again, haughty and raw.
The master took his wife.
A long honeymoon jaunt was begun.
Under the spring moon, the manor stood dark and quiet.
But below -
Fortified with a large hoard of provisions, night-hunts for small game, the planting of extra tubers, onions - and an abundance of apples...
The thief barks and howls, thrusting, quivering, dripping, worked by marvellous hands ever more skillful, by toys shaped and modelled to his thralled, ever-kindled form.
28oct01