THE STINK AND THE COUNTRY GENTLEMAN
The wonder that was true magic ended. The mystery that enshrouded
mystics and shamans was at an end and the whole of life mourned its
loss, mourned its passing. The seers that remained became few and far
between, their knowledge locked in dusty books or handed down from
generation to generation to be looked at and frowned on as mere freaks.
The wart curer and the finders of water, the natural healers,
the plant mixers, the spell casters, were shunned, except by country
folk, unless word of mouth and secret praise were heaped upon them and
their like - where science and drugs failed - then and only then were
they summoned and succeeded where others with medical degrees had
failed. And once found, once done, once cured, the recipients dropped
them like hot bricks for fear they would be found out and ridiculed!
One such was Oliver Stonegate. A degree in physics at Oxford University - a first
no less - yet he could not rid himself of his bad breath and body
odour, dandruff cascaded upon his shoulders like snow. He bathed and
washed his hair twice a day and never would he be found without his
mouth spray: his halitosis could fell an Ox at two paces! Yet still
he was shunned. He spent a fortune on deodorants of every type. It
seemed that the food he consumed turned to poisonous gas that leaked
out of every pore. No medical man could help; no practitioner in the
noble art of conventional healing could come near to a cure.
Here was a young man, good looking and elegant in every way
and very, very intelligent, except that no young lady - or whore come
to that - would touch him with a barge pole… and he so wanted to get
laid! The only people who could put up with it were his family, for
they were used to it.
One wind-swept day whilst out in the country - in the
wide-open spaces where he could roam free - and the smell of freshly
spread manure on the land hid his misery, he came across a man who sat
down opposite him on a pub bench with a pint of foaming ale.
Oliver ordered a pint of the same from a serving girl
whilst this odd gentleman eyed him up and down; and ‘eyed’ was exactly
what he did, for he had only ‘one eye’ and his clothes were trousers
worn by people who worked the land: roughly woven – home spun you might
say - and with a smock affair with long floppy sleeves, and he wore a
type of ragged bowler hat of all things. Most odd! And he could swear
that he had seen him somewhere before, where he didn’t know!
The man fixed Oliver with his one eye and, finishing his
pint with a flourish and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he
then turned and said the oddest thing:
“You’ve suffered enough, you ‘ave. ‘The past bleeds into the present and stains the future.’ You need danglewort,” is what he said, and gathering his hands on the table in front of him he continued to stare at Oliver Stonegate.
“Er, are you talking to me?” said Oliver. “Aint no one
else I’m a-lookin’ at. A-course I’m a-speakin’ to you. You need danglewort.” He said again.
Oliver paused. “Danglewort, you say? What is that when it’s at home?”
“It’s a cure for what ails you.”
“Ails me…you mean…”
“That’s exactly what I’m a-meanin. A cure for the stink!
I can smell it on yer. You thought ‘cos the fields were freshly mucked
us country folk wouldn’t smell yer. Well let me be a-tellin’ you, it’s
not the muck we’re a-smellin’, its YOU.”
Oliver reddened.
“Now don’t you be going off all offended like, t’aint nuffin to be
ashamed of; and that snow in yer hair, it’ll be a-curin’ that too!”
Oliver went quiet. Then burst into tears.
“No, don’t you go upsettin’ yerself, I’m ‘ere to help, my lad. I was called to ‘elp yer.”
“Called?” said Oliver, wiping his tears on a big white handkerchief, “Who called you?”
“Why you did a’course. I got the call and came a-lookin’.”
“I didn’t call anyone,” said Oliver miserably.
“Oh yes ee did. Why d’yer thing I’m ‘ere, then?”
Oliver stared at this country gentleman. “I’m not aware that I called
anyone,” he sniffed, blowing hard into his handkerchief.
The country gentleman stood up and stared down at Oliver.
“You comin’ then?” he said. “Where to,” Oliver replied. “Firstly I got
to reap some fresh danglewort,” said the gentleman, “and it’s a
bit of a climb. Come on, you goin’ to sit there all day?” The country
gentleman walked off in the direction of some hills. Oliver stood up
and followed obediently.
They climbed for an hour until they came to a little
clearing. “You rest ‘ere, I won’t be long,” said the gentleman. Oliver
sat down. He was aware that he was sweating and that he was due for a
bath.
The gentleman disappeared over to the side of the clearing.
The thought that hit Oliver was that this country gentleman was about
to abandon him and that this was all some sort of a joke! Oliver
waited for about five minutes and was about to stand up and go back
whence he had come to his hotel when the gentleman re-appeared holding
in his hands a bunch of wild herbs and a small pot. He filled the pot
with water from a stream, collected some kindling and soon had a small
fire going. He put the pot on the fire and let the water come to the
boil. Then he stripped the heads and leaves from the plants carefully
and put them in the boiling water. He then let them simmer. Oliver
stared at him incredulously.
“What are you doing?” said Oliver. “You’ll see,” answered the gentleman, “I’ll give the danglewort
a few more minutes until the water a-changes colour and then it’s
ready.” “Ready for what?” enquired a suspicious Oliver. “Then it’ll be
ready for ee ta drink!” “What will I drink it out of?” said Oliver.
“You’ll drink it out o’ the pot once I’ve fished out the danglwort and it’s cooled down a mite.” “Do you honestly think that I’m going to drink that stuff?” protested Oliver.
“Well, if you want to be a-cured of that stink on yer, yer will!” said the country gentleman.
‘What if he’s trying to poison me,’ thought Oliver.
“No, no, I’m not a-tryin’ to poison ee, Oliver, on my life I aint.”
“H-How did you know my n-name, what I was thinking?”
spluttered Oliver. These questions the countryman ignored. “Now are you
a-goin’ to drink it or do I have to waste this ‘ere medicine that I’ve
prepared for ee?”
Something in Oliver said that he had to drink it, he didn’t know what or why but he just HAD to drink it!
“A-Alright, I’ll drink it…when it’s cooled.”
Both men settled down to wait for the cooling process and
both men stared into the fire, the countryman with his one eye and
Oliver with his two eyes. He was now strangely calm.
Fifteen minutes or so passed. The man got up, pulled out
the leaves and the heads of the plant and handed the pot to Oliver.
Oliver took the small pot in both hands.
“Now ee’s to drink it down in one a-swallowin’, continuous like,” said the gentleman.
Oliver paused. He smelt the brew and wrinkled his nose. It
didn’t smell too bad. Then he lifted the pot to his lips…and drank! All
the time the gentleman was watching him, coaxing him with small
gestures of his hands.
When Oliver had drunk it to the dregs he started to cough,
the dregs had caught in his throat! When he had stopped coughing a
strange euphoria took hold of him and he lost consciousness but not
before the countryman said something else that was equally as strange
as the statement he had made when first they met: “I forgive ee lad, for what ee did.”
Oliver saw himself dressed in an Indian dhoti
and shifting piles of human excrement from little houses in a
handcart. He knew that he was an untouchable, that he was of low cast and he resented it instead of accepting his lot in life as the rest of his cast did, and this resentment made him angry, and the more angry he became the more ‘hate’ rested in his being. He knew
that he had murdered his master, drowning him in the human waste that
he resented so much. And for this he was caught and executed.
He woke up from this dream for he supposed that
he HAD been dreaming, to find that the country gentleman had gone and
all that was left was the warm ashes of the fire.
He made his way down to the hotel and had a bath and
washed his hair. He noticed that people treated him differently that he
no longer stank in other peoples’ noses and that he was well and trulycured! His joy knew no bounds. A
happiness that he had never known descended on him: pretty women were
no longer repelled by his stink, quite the reverse in fact, they were attracted by his ‘natural’ odour and he had to beat them off with a stick…well almost!
He looked for the country gentleman and even asked for him at the country pub.
Nobody had heard of him, apart from that he didn’t even know his name! He looked up the herb danglewort
in ‘Culpeppers Herbal’, the bible of all herbalists. Such a herb was
not found anywhere! He looked for a mention of it in every book on
simples and the art of herb preparation but never found even the
remotest reference to it in illustration as well as by name.
The man he murdered in his dream had a distinct likeness to the country gentleman and he had only one eye and wore a type of bowler hat that fitted his station, being of high cast! Now wasn’t THAT strange? And the words that the country gentleman had first uttered (The past bleeds into the present and stains the future) filled
him with a longing to say how sorry he was. But the final words of the
countryman he found filled him with the profound peace of release:
“I FORGIVE EE, LAD, FOR WHAT EE DID, I FORGIVE EE!”
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