Much to Jergen's protests, the old woman insisted that she be a hostess to him for the night. After washing the inch thick layers of filth off his body, the old woman had treated him to a lovely meal of rice pilaf and zucchini. During said meal, Jergens learned a bit more about the woman. Her name was Irene Whittington, and she was best known for her community service. “You ain’t the only down-and-out rascal livin’ round’ here boy. Nor are you the only who’ve I’ve invited for a night or three.” She had told him a bit more than once.
When the table had been cleared, Irene and Jergens slowly migrated over to the living room. “So…” Irene began as she plopped carelessly onto the couch. “I told ya what ya needed to know about me, now how about you?” Jergens put a hand to a forming beard on his chin, stroking it a little in thought. Could he really trust her? Hm, yes, he thought he might. He didn’t have much to lose anyway. “Where do I begin, lady?” he leaned forward a little on the couch, staring at the hardwood flooring. After a while, he began.
“Well… My parents kicked me out when I was twelve. Don’t bother asking me how old I am now. I can’t remember my birthday anymore, but by the year I can only tell that I’m either nineteen or twenty. Couldn’t tell ya which. Anyway, they kicked me out when they found that I’m a… um… well…” he faltered a bit, trying to find that right words. The old woman gave him a sharp, wise glance.
“Yer a queer, ain’t ya boy?”
Jergens was taken aback, “Well… yeah… Should I leave now?” he looked at her sadly. It had happened before; many nice families letting him stay, only to throw his ass right on out when they discovered that he was a homosexual.
The old woman crackled loudly at this, thinking of it as a great joke. “Leave?! Ho, boy, don’t you think yer special?
It was a few hours before Jergens decided to give up on waiting. Several servants and lesser merchants entered and exited the iron gates, but never Bartleby himself. Refusing disappointment, Jergens decided to snoop around the town and gather some more information.
It was not long before he came across a little old lady sitting on her house stoop. Jergens thought this would be fine asking bait. Casually, he walked over and extended a grime-covered hand to the woman. “Hey missy, mind if I ask ya some questions?” he asked, putting on his most charming face. The old woman, a spry old thing in her seventies, cracked a toothless grin at him, her pink gums shining in the sunlight. “Well, boy, you certainly came to the right place if you got questions.” She scooted over on her stoop, letting Jergens sit next to her. Jergens complied and sat down, letting his eyes scan over the cobblestone path in front of them. “You see here, boy, I’ve lived here all my life. So, what do ya want to know?” she looked at the boy, her wrinkles perfectly framing her sparkling blue eyes, untouched by age. “Well… What can you tell me about that big merchant Mister Bartleby that everyone round’ here talks about?” Jergens knew what would be the automatic answer. The old woman grimaced. “Oh, that prissy pussy-footer?” she spat. “What a joke, never even comes out to talk to any of his costumers… You meet him, and you know he’s a regular asshole.” She pressed her lips together and formed a fine line of defiance. “Yeah… I gathered that.” Jergens chuckled. “How do you think I might be able to land a job with him?” he asked, stretching his lean arms in front of him.
The old woman thought this over for a moment. “Well… I wouldn't know, son. His servants all come from the same family. I’ve never seen him just get up and hire someone.” She looked up at Jergens and then smiled a sly, sinister smile.
Once upon a time, many hundreds of years before now, there was a little town that sat right next to a huge forest. The people in this town were very happy, for they were protected by the Twin Deer Gods that lived in the big forest. All deer that lived in the forest were godly to the people. Every deer that would come to their settlement was respected and praised, and because of this, the deer were happy too. This little town, I forgot the name of it now, was your average town. It had an Inn, a blacksmith, a tavern… pretty much all things needed for a town to thrive. But it also had a young merchant, who was very rich, named Bartleby.
Bartleby, being as rich as he was, lived in a big mansion all by himself. His parents died young, so he took over the business of buying and selling at a younger age than most. In our story, he had just turned eighteen years old. In this big mansion, Bartleby lived alone with hundreds upon hundreds of servants. Bartleby himself was very handsome, with short blonde hair and pale skin; he was the most popular young man that was always asked for at dance festivals.
One day Bartleby was strolling about his own personal garden. It was a lovely day, and a light breeze had begun to pick up, ruffling his delicate golden locks. He enjoyed walking about by himself on days like this; it made him feel as if he were the only person in the world. He breathed in a mouthful of clean, fresh air… and retched horribly. A disgusting reek had entered his nostrils, coming from behind a couple of large blueberry bushes. Incredibly annoyed, the boy marched over and pushed some leaves to the side.
A boy about his age was hiding behind them, worn and dirty. The repulsive smell had been coming from him. Bartleby wrinkled his nose rather impolitely. “Who are you? What is your business here?” he asked. The dirty boy just looked back up at him and smiled.
Bartleby was slow to recover. He kept himself in the shed for many days as Turkey would watch over him much like his mother that once watched him. He would smother Bartleby with soothing kisses as his Master would mumble out nonsense words in delirium. The wound had been infected, and despite Turkey’s gentle care, it could not be touched without the little fawn’s screams and raves to accompany it.
The crows would sit by their Master in place of Turkey during the nights. It is always a grim business to watch over such a broken soul. The once shrewd, pompous Bartleby now was nothing more than a quivering shell full of pain. Periodically, birds would sing right outside the shed, making the humiliation of the fawn even more unbearable.
“The little fyeul
Gout up in the day
Ignored wor warnings
Decided to stay.
‘Haddaway! Haddaway!
W’ cried and wailed
Fash as w’ were
W’ kept on wor tails
Smug little fawn!
Hide in your hyem!
Notting more than a hemmel
Fyeul! Fyeul! Fyuel!”
Perhaps I should go into Turkey’s years as Master Bartleby’s cleaner. However, if I did, you probably fall fast asleep in your chairs. The truth is Turkey had a fairly monotonous life from his sudden employment to what you just saw. Every morning he would clean out old grass from the shed and dispose of it in the nearby thickets. After this he would use his teeth to cut new stalks and place them in the shed for new, fresh bedding. Then he would graze about the clearing, occasionally snuffing the air and rubbing his antlers against trees.
It would be then that Debit and Credit might come along to rest or prepare for another task that Bartleby had put on them. The two crows had gotten a bit older over the years, and had lost a little bit of their sharpness of tongue. Their normally black feathers were graying a bit, slowly merging to match the bold whiteness their bodies once boasted. After the crows would come and go, Bartleby might come to the shed for a quick cleaning. Turkey’s long, slender tongue would bath the little fawn’s stunning pelt.
Perhaps we should concern ourselves no more with Turkey’s usual day, as that seems to have little importance right now, and turn to our Bartleby. Despite the constant rotating of years and Turkey’s slow progression into a stag, Bartleby had stayed the same. He never grew physically, always keeping the same form of body. No one would question this. The crows seemed to already know the answer and Turkey didn’t really seem to notice the lack of maturity. Intruders were frowned upon by Bartleby, and were quickly chased off, so no one else really knew the fawn well enough to question him. ‘They’ might take this scientific phenomenon of a fawn and examine him from head to toe, as curious as ‘they’ usually are. But we must remember that this story is about animals, not ‘they’, animals are not as curious about science as ‘they’ are. Rather, they are more into superstition.
“A beautiful day…” the young doe murmured to herself before grabbing another bite of the sweet spring grass. Her companion, another doe in the prime of life, simply replied, “Isn’t it, though?”
The two strolled about as they ate, not really paying any mind to their surroundings as they moved through the brush and thickets. After a little while, they passed the location where our Turkey had met Master Bartleby. Of course they stopped for a drink at the little brook as well, chatting all the way.
They continued on for a little while before the sharp, raspy call of a crow interrupted their conversation. The two does stiffened and immediately snuffed the air and looked about them. After a few tense moments, they relaxed and continued their walk, glaring all the way at the strange, white-beaked crow that had made the false alarm.
It was then that one of the does stopped and stared at one of the trees. Her companion halted as well, staring open-mouthed at their new finding.
There were indents and rubbing marks in the bark of the tree. That could only mean that there was a buck around, shedding the velvet lining off of his new antlers.
The two does, who had both been searching for mates, nearly squealed with girlish delight. They sniffed around the tree and after finding a scent, pursued the new target.
They saw him after coming out into a new clearing. He was casually grazing about in the open. His sharp scent penetrated the doe’s nostrils, making them swoon with profound ecstasy. “Oh, look at those antlers!” one of them said, her whole body shivering with arousal. Indeed, the buck’s rack was more than a little impressive. The massive antlers nearly reached four feet in height and exceeded three feet in length each. Truly a fine specimen!
“Oh, his pelt! Look at that pelt!” the other exclaimed eagerly. The buck’s pelt was a shaggy sort. Long, clean hairs nearly touched the ground.
The crows, after about five minutes of flying and prodding, finally led our Turkey into yet another large clearing. This clearing was different than the previous one with the brook though. In the last one, there was immense shading due to the trees, which provided much comfort to the three. However, in this new clearing, there was no cover, just bright sunlight that made Turkey wince in pain.
“Are you coming or not?” the childish voice of Bartleby rang a bit farther out. Only a small glitter on the ground betrayed his location, which the crows knew to be his golden hooves sparkling in the sun. Turkey didn’t move though, he was far too busy examining the upward sky for birds to notice even his new Master’s voice.
Debit and Credit, feeling the discomfort of the beating sun on their backs and usually easily irked to begin with, each grabbed one of Turkey’s ears and dragged him to a small abandoned shed that sat in the middle of the clearing.
Bartleby had already fearlessly walked in when they got there, and the crows, too hot to really care, immediately flew in without bothering with Turkey. He wouldn’t have gone in anyway, the sight of the little run-down building made him paw the ground in fear. The smell of it was strange and irregular, as if it was trying to be several things at once… Smoke… leather… cologne… Of course Turkey didn’t know the names of these things, but even at his low intelligence, he knew that they meant danger by instinct.
On the other hand, his three friends had just walked in without a care. Did this mean it was safe? Turkey didn’t know… Very reluctantly, with his tail between his legs, he slowly walked in.
The shed was quite empty. It was really just a shell of a building, but to the animals, it was a shield from the hot sun. Turkey felt at ease almost immediately as a cool bit of air rushed at him.
At the sight of the newcomer, the two crows crowded around and bid the little deer welcome. The pretty thing only looked at them with scorn though, and quickly pushed them away with the swipe of a foot.
“Master Bartleby? What fettle the day? Hoo are ye?” Debit asked as he flew up a bit, casually avoiding the fawn’s strike. The fawn, who will now call Bartleby, merely looked at him with some disdain. As Bartleby is also called ‘Master’ we will also assume that it is a ‘he’. The two crows fluttered about their Master’s head a bit before finally settling on his white back.
Bartley now turned to our own little fawn, “My apologies that you had to be escorted by such nasty things.” He said with a slight bow of the head. “Please, won’t you come over? I’m afraid I can’t, I don’t want to get dirty in that old brook.” He lifted one of his magnificent little hooves and licked it daintily.
The little fawn (that is, our little fawn) seemed to understand the request and scampered across the brook. When he got to the other side his shaggy under-coat was all that was drenched in the muddy water.
“Very good then, now… let me take a look at you…” Bartleby circled around him a number of times, before suddenly rearing his head and nipping our fawn’s shoulder. It took a few seconds before our fawn cried out in pain. “He isn’t very bright… why did you pick him?” Bartleby turned his head around to the crows lounging on his back. “W’ saw him in the ol’ hause wit a deed doe.” Credit said. “Aye, w’ felt soory for him’ Thaas all.” Debit piped up. “I see…” the pretty little fawn murmured sympathetically. “And… what is his name?”
At this, the two crows looked at one another and then at their Master. “Weel, you know, Master. Names are daangerus’ things they are. I reckon his mother didn’t ave’ one either, ya?”
The gold-hoofed fawn pondered this for a moment and finally said, “True, names are dangerous.
