It is another fortnight before Mr. Chubs finds “the one.” The time spent with the caravan that had picked him up from under the tree had been pleasant – in fact the most pleasant time he had spent in anyone’s company. The children had been fascinated by his harmonica and books, the younger ones never having even seen a book before. The conversation between the adults had been mellow, a swapping of stories both of performances and actual stories. He had never known so many people to co-exist peacefully when hardships were an everyday occurrence.
He was loath to part with them but neither they nor he had offered an alliance. Their paths had crossed but for those two weeks, forever diverging, once Mr. Chubs decided to stop at Harkness.
Harkness was bigger than Goya. It was close to the sea and the gently swaying palm trees, the hot sun and the breeze had nearly convinced him this would be his next stop. And when no one gave him or his wagon a second look, he knew he would be safe here, for a time.
He had quickly found an inn that would let him stay and pay on a week-to-week basis. Though the innkeeper had been sceptical seeing his dusty clothes and bushy moustache, the money he had shown had been solid and she had grudgingly called a boy to show him to his room.
It was a serviceable room, with a bed, a table and a pitcher of water. It came with an attached privy, a thing so uncommon, Mr. Chubs had immediately removed his little book of stories to write one down about a visiting noble, finding a privy for the very first time and the hilarious shenanigans that would then ensue.
He took the entire afternoon to write and polish his latest story before going to a nearby tavern for a drink and to earn some coins. Though no one was interested in a story, seeing his harmonica tucked strategically in his coat pocket, the maid invited him to play a merry tune. Mr. Chubs was only too happy to comply.
*
A month passed in peaceable existence. He exchanged a few of his old books for newer books that spoke of far-off places, of kings and queens and their jesters rising to power. There was also a treatise of six volumes on How A King Must Rule. Mr. Chubs was especially curious about them when he stopped at the local apothecary, which was also a book shop and a flower shop, all rolled into one.
“How this survived Reifire’s crusade I will never know.”
Frendwig, the proprietor, was only too happy to dispel his ignorance. “Do you have a minute? I’m off soon and we can have a cup of tea?”
“All the time in the world, my man,” said Mr. Chubs, rubbing his hands with glee.
Once he was closed for the day, Frendwig led him to the back of his shop where he lived. It was a cluttered space, with books on everything from herblore to How to Sew a Button scattered on the floor and on the chairs. It took Mr. Chubs a few minutes to clear the chairs, as Frendwig started the fire. Once they had settled, Mr. Chubs was snug as a babe in his mother’s arms. The air was chilly tonight and he was grateful he wasn’t on the road but warm and inside. He sent up a prayer of thanks.
“That book, my friend,” Frendwig began without preamble, “has an illustrious journey. How about that cup of tea then?”
At Mr. Chubs’ nod, he disappeared and then returned with a kettle, two cups and a carved wooden box. “My specialty,” he said with a wink as he made the tea.
After handing over a cup, he said, “Now, where was I? Yes, the treatise. Well, it was written during the reign of King Tebough II, containing the wisdom of King Tebough I. His son hisself had sanctioned its writing. It was locked away when Reifire started his crusade against stories. Even he wasn’t stupid enough to destroy that piece of history.”
Mr. Chubs chuckled. It never ceased to amaze him how freely folks cursed Reifire, now that he was safely six feet beneath the ground, the power of inciting violence just because someone dared to oppose him no longer in his grasp.
“You laugh now dear Mr. Chubs but you know what I’m talking about. I have seen some of the books you have carried. I shudder to think how you came by them or how you managed to hold onto them.”
He raised his cup of tea like it was a tumbler of beer. “With great threat to life and limb.”
Frendwig nodded sagely. “I came by that book because King Janah hisself gave it to me.” Seeing the interest on his audience’s face perk up, he straightened his back. “Yessir I tell you that is how it came to be. He told me Frendwig, the keeper of stories and books, this treatise belongs where others can discover it too, not in some dusty dungeon, being feasted upon by rats.”
Ignoring that tasteful imagery, Mr. Chubs said, “And you’d part with it for nothing?”
“Not nothing sirrah. I’d take your little book on stories so I may bind them and sell them.”
Mr. Chubs perceived he may have made a grave error in befriending Frendwig. “My good sir, I do not have such lofty ambitions. They are of no value.”
“Stories are always of value.”
He wanted to run, he really wanted to turn tail and run. But he couldn’t arouse suspicion so stayed put and tried to think of a way to extricate himself from a mother of a problem.
The negotiations took all night and turned out to be far more difficult than he had anticipated. The more he protested, the more stubborn Frendwig became. At about an hour from dawn, Mr. Chubs made his final offer: three of his books plus three of his stories for Tebough’s treatise. Frendwig assented, much to his relief.
“Never again,” he murmured to himself as he made his way to the inn, “never again am I showing someone my little book of stories. No sirrah!”
This is Chapter 4 of 26 of The Travelling Librarian series. Written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z.
Psst: I also have 2 ebooks on Kindle – and if you’re on Kindle Unlimited, they’re free!
- Read The Gunslinger here.
- Read 23 Letters of Love here.
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