Sir Carlyle
Sir Carlyle stands his post amidst a ghost town. The people no longer walk the streets. The smiling faces no longer frolic through the streets shopping, musing, and breathing the fresh air. No gentry happens by to drop charitable coinage into the purse of Sir Carlyle for his dutifully guarding of the street corner.
For decades, the fine Carlyle has stood on his calloused, pained feet eyeing the gentry who quickstep past to avoid the putrid smell from his hose and breeches. Not battle, but the elements and cobblestones tatter his outer garments. Bladeless, defenseless, and foul, he stands astride a large sack containing his worldly belongings. Eyeing. Waiting to defend against the coming pestilence. Sir Carlyle stands.
Forsooth, not much remains to eye or to guard. The daily crier screams throughout the town of a plague. He screams day and night that the invisible pestilence will leave bodies strewn in the streets as well as crying babes without mothers to suckle them. Sir Carlyle stands to defend against the oncoming pestilence as the canary in the mine.
Through his eyes, many obstacles and foes have assailed Sir Carlyle attempting to remove him from his watch. Even well-meaning kin have, at times, hampered his duties. As a young squire, Sir Carlyle would take respite from the streets by returning to his father’s house. The Elder Carlyle would bring his son back home to recuperate from misadventures oft due to excess grog. Once vitality returned, Sir Carlyle would disrupt the Elder’s restrictive household eventually leaving it for the freedom of the streets. Before his exeunts, the Elder would accuse his son of lacking clarity of thought. After the Elder Carlyle’s passing, other siblings provided refuge to Sir Carlyle resulting in the same household disruptions followed by his dutiful return to the streets.
More recently on a cold, windy evening, a sound arose in the distance like a blaring trumpet of war piercing Sir Carlyle’s ears. Rapidly, the sound moved closer forcing a chill up his spine. Almost deafening now, his heart racing, the lights blinded him momentarily while rushing ever closer. Recovering his vision, he could see the oncoming red chariot ominously speeding, bouncing, blaring, closing in on him. Two uniformed soldiers of the enemy leapt from the chariot wearing masks to hide their identity. The soldiers attempted to talk Sir Carlyle into a false sense of security. They hoped that Carlyle would surrender without a fight. But, their eyes. He could still see their unmasked eyes gleaming with evil intent. Although outnumbered, Sir Carlyle resisted valiantly but succumbed to a lack of nutrition and an excess of grog. The soldiers bound him to a board, slid him into the back of the chariot, and whisked him away from his post.
Bouncing, screeching, speeding to an unknown destination, the chariot suddenly jerked to a stop. The doors flung open revealing the most dreaded destination possible, the object of Sir Carlyle’s nightmares- the enemy castle. The castle stood tall, imposing, with many rooms hidden deep within. He had been taken there before, tortured, imprisoned, and made to comply until he affected his escape. But now, they knew him. The agents of the castle would be ever more diligent this time to impose their will on his body and on his mind.
Limbs restrained, Carlyle bellowed his resistance at the enemy castle, its soldiers, and its agents. He fiercely fought with his only free parts, his mouth and his will. The enemy appeared to retreat from his bellowing until one agent returned with a small dagger plunging it into his hip. Within minutes, darkness fell upon Sir Carlyle.
He awoke in the heart of the confines, many floors above any exit. It began again. The torture. Forced to lie on a hard slab of a bed, lights turned on every four hours for routine interrogation including an arm-squeezing device, a mouth probe, and bloodletting to worsen the sleep deprivation. Agents forced capsules down his gullet to weaken his resolve. Worst of all, specialists in foot torture grinded off callouses earned through years of guard duty leaving his feet in pain and unable to tolerate standing for any length of time.
Yet, the castle agents underestimated Sir Carlyle. The assumed him simple-minded or dull-witted. So, he cunningly played the part of the complicit captive while waiting for an opening. The days melded into nights blurred into weeks without differentiation. One day, a castle agent of provided a plea bargain: trade your freedom for the false promise of a safe Utopia.
Wisely, he feigned appreciation of the bargain. As a result, he was transferred to a minimum-security prison from whence he promptly escaped. Dutifully, he returned to his post to begin the painful process of reconditioning his feet.
Friends and foes alike have tried to keep Sir Carlyle from his post, but they have all failed. The caged bird sings because he is not caged. Thus, Sir Carlyle stands his post donning putrid garments while awaiting the harkening plague.
Episode 5: The Count of Montecristo
more to come…
We encourage you to take to the streets and get to know the people, the struggles, and the stories for yourself. Bring food, socks, and an open heart.