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.
