He was drunk. Mr. Chubs knew that deep, deep, really deep down. But he was in the happy phase of being drunk so he did not protest too loudly when Tully suggested a night of tavern hopping as a way to celebrate their one year of being master and apprentice.
Since they did not have the coin to spare, it appeared neither Tully’s father’s wealth nor his patience was endless, they had only three taverns to hop between. Which meant poor quality beer, watered down to taste like horse piss, but with a kick nonetheless.
Mr. Chubs was three glasses down and they were in the second round of their hopping. The third tavern still had a visit pending but he didn’t think he could get up and walk there.
The other drunks were giving them a wide berth. This wasn’t one of those taverns where one could make a happy announcement and expect people to celebrate with you. This was one of those taverns where people came to escape, to get drunk, and to just be left alone for the time it took them to reach that perfect state of drunkenness where the everyday ceased to matter.
Tully whispered, loudly, “I cannot believe I managed to hold onto you for an entire year.”
“So you have said, repeatedly, for the past…oh I don’t know.”
He giggled. “Chubby,” Tully said poking his cheek, “chub chubs.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
Instead of cowering, Tully got up from his stool and gave Mr. Chubs a hug. “My chubby chub chubs.”
He rolled his eyes in the circle of his embrace. He patted the younger man’s arm soothingly until Tully let go and went back to his stool.
“Chubs…hey Chubs.”
He grunted. When Tully did not relent, he asked, “What do you want?”
“Tell me a story.”
And Mr. Chubs could not resist.
*
There was once an advisor whose name was Galahad. He thought because he was an advisor, it made him automatically wise. He had a king who he advised and this king was not just his liege but also a friend. They had grown up together even though there was a vast gulf between their status, and become friends. Not just allies, but true friends.
Galahad had, right since he had been a boy, lied to protect the future king. It had started innocently enough. A lie here – no sir I haven’t seen him – and a lie there – yes ma’am of course he’s resting. But he hadn’t known he had been auditioning and the royal court had found his loyalty an asset.
As soon as the king had ascended the throne, after his father had tragically died in a horrific poisoning accident, he had made Galahad his advisor and righthand man. Needless to say, Galahad had been delighted at the appointment and his family rose to prominence.
The beginning of the reign was peaceful enough. Despite the dubious circumstances under which the old king had died, the new king’s reign was prosperous. There weren’t enough dangers to help navigate the king or the kingdom through so Galahad became the unofficial keeper of the king’s schedule.
Which mostly meant his job was to entertain the king. And if he failed, find people who could provide such entertainment.
Galahad had as much fun as he could with this addition to his other advising duties. He had the king attend a shoe-making workshop, got the palace cook to teach him how to roll dough, and even clean the ballroom before a gathering. Much to everyone’s shock, the king not only tolerated such inclusions to his schedule, his enthusiasm for such tasks was palpable. Quite accidentally, Galahad found himself the most sought-after advisor in the entire kingdom. Everyone wanted a piece of him because he had the king’s ear.
His winning streak came to an end one day when he allowed foreign musicians to enter the court to sing their songs. The song that got everyone into trouble was one about a jester who found bizarre ways to keep himself occupied – like eating shoes and dusting dough.
Perhaps the musicians took the jest too far. Perhaps what happened next was inevitable. This storyteller cannot say for certain. The king had Galahad execute the entire troupe, including the ones who hadn’t been performing.
It had been a black day, not only because the fumes rising from the burning bodies turned the sky black but also because the incident led to a horrific practice.
In this, Galahad was not wise. He did not counsel his king to steadfastness. Instead, he became the knife that delivered his violence.
*
By the end of the story Mr. Chubs had reached the melancholic phase of his drunkenness. It would probably explain why he had chosen such a maudlin tale when they were celebrating.
Tully though was shaking his head. “It’s been a year and I had thought I had heard all your stories. I haven’t heard this before.”
Mr. Chubs shrugged. He dared not open his mouth to provide any explanation. Tully had painstakingly chipped away at his walls and created a hole in his defences in the past year. His outer wall had been breached, despite his best efforts.
“It’s not your usual fare either,” he said, not waiting for an explanation. “Generally your stories are positive, uplifting. This was…well Galahad was a bad human being. I didn’t know you could cater to such human weakness as well.” Tully was teasing but there was an edge to his words.
Mr. Chubs had taken the words Tully had thrown at him outside the guardhouse seriously and had tried to make his stories less metaphorical and more “real.” But he had still refused to make them as hard hitting as Tully wanted.
When Mr. Chubs still refused to answer, Tully got angry. He was sobering up quickly and he did not like it. But it had the side effect of his brain firing up as it made impossible connections. It was one of the skills he had acquired since becoming Mr. Chubs’ apprentice.
“How do you know that story? I know you enough to know that one was a real tale, embellished maybe, but true nonetheless.”
“There were no embellishments.” Mr. Chubs looked resigned, like he had given up, like he was at his tethers end. It had been ten years since someone had called him by his real name. Ten years since he had left Forbearn. Ten years since he had been important. And he was tired. Tired of being a nobody travelling librarian Mr. Chubs. Tired of being nothing more than a red-faced, fat storyteller, who told stories because he hadn’t lived a life.
He wanted to shed Mr. Chubs as if it was skin and he a snake. Suddenly he wanted to be known and acknowledged. He had been a somebody before he had become a nobody.
Clearly it was the beer talking as he opened his mouth and blurted, “My name, my real name, is Arthur Uriel Banes.” He promptly passed out on the table after the confession.
This is Chapter 8 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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