The Happiness of War.
Feb. 21st, 2006 07:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quigonejinnMore HH stories in the style of fairy tales. :D
Once upon a time, there was a boy who had four sisters.
He was not a prince, though, for none of the boys in our stories are. Things would have been far better for this boy, in particular, if he had been one since his family was so desperately poor. Things would have been much better if even one of his sisters had been a boy, actually, but wishing never let anybody ride; as Egypt was plagued by frogs and locusts and avenging angels, so unmarriageable girls plagued this boy's family.
The origins of the plague were unknown. Perhaps there had been a malevolent fairy or an irritated gypsy who felt she had been cheated by the boy's uncle, who owned a fine brick house with a handsome garden, the third most prosperous smithy in the city, multiple pairs of real silk stockings, and was nevertheless said to be tighter with his coin than a Dago and his lice. The charitable did, however, say that this was why the uncle had been kind enough to take his sister's boy on and teach him a craft, free, for since coming home from the sea, the boy's own father had been unable to sto--
Never you mind what the uncharitable said about the uncle or what anyone with eyes said about the father.
The facts stand that there was a curse of daughters in that family and that one summer evening, the boy was standing behind his uncle's house, waiting for the latest row over five-daughters-and-no-sons to subside as a fortune-teller came down the street crying, "Fortunes! Fortunes! Fortunes told cheap!"
The boy had had a little money. His mother had slipped him a bit on his last visit home. The eldest sister, the one who took care of the finances, had been temporarily distracted by the need to box the ears of a youngest sister who wasting precious, expensive firewood, and as the row was going on, the boy's mother pressed the money into his hand, quickly, like one who was stealing money instead of giving it. She told him to put it in his pocket and only look at what she had given when he was back in the street.
He had earned it, after all, and for all of her refusal to find work outside the house, his mother was a kind woman, a decent woman who deserved better out of life than a miser brother and a useless husband. She knew that the boy deserved better than what he had, too.
"Take it," she had said, looking at him. "Be happy."
And that was how the boy had a bit of money with him that evening, and after a bit of brisk haggling, he had less money and more of a fortune.
The old woman -- it was hard to tell, actually, whether it was a woman or man amidst all the wrinkles and the outlandish clothes and heavy pack, the stick with the bells on it, but it was a woman, an unmarried woman -- the fortune-teller grasped his hand, and she looked into his face.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a bit of string hanging out of his pocket tied with knots like those used by sailors. She looked at his hand again, and she could see calluses and feel the strange, smooth hardness that came from manual labor with heavy implements and near extremely hot objects. On the side of his neck, there was a red mark from where a stiff leather apron carelessly and roughly cut down from a man's size to a boy's would chafe him. There were a few burns at the neck and the forearms from where the apron had failed to cover him, and he was, after all, standing behind the house next to a smithy. She could smell it in the air.
There was no work being done as of the moment, but it would be difficult not to notice the smell.
The boy leaned forward. "Well?"
"You work for a blacksmith. Not your father, I should say. And you wish to go to sea."
His expression changed, rapidly. That was all it took to convince him, for he had not told her that he was a blacksmith's boy. He now looked so eager that she thought about asking him for another penny before she told the rest of his fortune, but he looked again, though, at the wear on his shoes, the thinness, from washings, of his shirt and clothing. The hardness of his hands, the burns at the neck and upon the arms, the solid brick house with handsome ironwork behind him.
The fortune teller studied him for another moment, and then, she added, not because she saw anything that might indicate it but, instead, only because she had a sudden impulse to be kind.
"You will go to sea as an officer," she said, quietly, turning his hand over to the palm again, and then looking him in the eyes. He had unusually light-colored ones, almost gray in the twilight of the street. Remarkable ones. She could hardly see them in the fading light.
"You shall travel all over the world with a great captain," she added. "And after many trials, you will have a matchless ship of your own."
Years later, despite the fact that the old crone had merely being kind for the boy's sake, most of the fortune had come true: the boy had earned it by way of his dedication and bravery and devotion to his great captain. A miracle -- the birth of three boys in succession to the uncle -- had carried him out to sea. There were other marks on him, now, to replace the burns that he had worn as a young boy, but he was proud of them. He even had a ship whose name meant a person or thing without equal.
Thus, he believed the junior captain who was telling fortunes and talking about golden crowns the night before Le Havre. Hornblower did not believe in fortunes, but Bush did; he had lived one. It served him well, had made him happy and more prosperous than he ever thought possible.
Nevertheless, the old woman's fortune only came partially true. She had also promised him a happy death, in bed, in a fine brick house with ironwork, surrounded by loving family with eyes as handsome as his.
Instead, the boy was blown to pieces over muddy waters in France. It was a noble death, as good as could be expected for a man of the Royal Navy who would not have known what to do with fine house and a loving family and the contentment of peace as opposed to the happiness of war even if he had lived to see them.
Nevertheless, in the end, it was death.
In the end, it was all that two pence and a blacksmith's boy from Chichester could buy.
Setup for the fortune teller from Grimm's 'The Bravest Little Tailor.' Story idea that ATE MY AFTERNOON from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
black_hound
Actually. *mind-tricks* You will ignore the fic. You will, intead, look at the whitest man alive and the best profile EVER, excuse the shiny nose.
Both caps from Nice Town, whichblack_hound was kind enough to send me. ^____^
Once upon a time, there was a boy who had four sisters.
He was not a prince, though, for none of the boys in our stories are. Things would have been far better for this boy, in particular, if he had been one since his family was so desperately poor. Things would have been much better if even one of his sisters had been a boy, actually, but wishing never let anybody ride; as Egypt was plagued by frogs and locusts and avenging angels, so unmarriageable girls plagued this boy's family.
The origins of the plague were unknown. Perhaps there had been a malevolent fairy or an irritated gypsy who felt she had been cheated by the boy's uncle, who owned a fine brick house with a handsome garden, the third most prosperous smithy in the city, multiple pairs of real silk stockings, and was nevertheless said to be tighter with his coin than a Dago and his lice. The charitable did, however, say that this was why the uncle had been kind enough to take his sister's boy on and teach him a craft, free, for since coming home from the sea, the boy's own father had been unable to sto--
Never you mind what the uncharitable said about the uncle or what anyone with eyes said about the father.
The facts stand that there was a curse of daughters in that family and that one summer evening, the boy was standing behind his uncle's house, waiting for the latest row over five-daughters-and-no-sons to subside as a fortune-teller came down the street crying, "Fortunes! Fortunes! Fortunes told cheap!"
The boy had had a little money. His mother had slipped him a bit on his last visit home. The eldest sister, the one who took care of the finances, had been temporarily distracted by the need to box the ears of a youngest sister who wasting precious, expensive firewood, and as the row was going on, the boy's mother pressed the money into his hand, quickly, like one who was stealing money instead of giving it. She told him to put it in his pocket and only look at what she had given when he was back in the street.
He had earned it, after all, and for all of her refusal to find work outside the house, his mother was a kind woman, a decent woman who deserved better out of life than a miser brother and a useless husband. She knew that the boy deserved better than what he had, too.
"Take it," she had said, looking at him. "Be happy."
And that was how the boy had a bit of money with him that evening, and after a bit of brisk haggling, he had less money and more of a fortune.
The old woman -- it was hard to tell, actually, whether it was a woman or man amidst all the wrinkles and the outlandish clothes and heavy pack, the stick with the bells on it, but it was a woman, an unmarried woman -- the fortune-teller grasped his hand, and she looked into his face.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a bit of string hanging out of his pocket tied with knots like those used by sailors. She looked at his hand again, and she could see calluses and feel the strange, smooth hardness that came from manual labor with heavy implements and near extremely hot objects. On the side of his neck, there was a red mark from where a stiff leather apron carelessly and roughly cut down from a man's size to a boy's would chafe him. There were a few burns at the neck and the forearms from where the apron had failed to cover him, and he was, after all, standing behind the house next to a smithy. She could smell it in the air.
There was no work being done as of the moment, but it would be difficult not to notice the smell.
The boy leaned forward. "Well?"
"You work for a blacksmith. Not your father, I should say. And you wish to go to sea."
His expression changed, rapidly. That was all it took to convince him, for he had not told her that he was a blacksmith's boy. He now looked so eager that she thought about asking him for another penny before she told the rest of his fortune, but he looked again, though, at the wear on his shoes, the thinness, from washings, of his shirt and clothing. The hardness of his hands, the burns at the neck and upon the arms, the solid brick house with handsome ironwork behind him.
The fortune teller studied him for another moment, and then, she added, not because she saw anything that might indicate it but, instead, only because she had a sudden impulse to be kind.
"You will go to sea as an officer," she said, quietly, turning his hand over to the palm again, and then looking him in the eyes. He had unusually light-colored ones, almost gray in the twilight of the street. Remarkable ones. She could hardly see them in the fading light.
"You shall travel all over the world with a great captain," she added. "And after many trials, you will have a matchless ship of your own."
Years later, despite the fact that the old crone had merely being kind for the boy's sake, most of the fortune had come true: the boy had earned it by way of his dedication and bravery and devotion to his great captain. A miracle -- the birth of three boys in succession to the uncle -- had carried him out to sea. There were other marks on him, now, to replace the burns that he had worn as a young boy, but he was proud of them. He even had a ship whose name meant a person or thing without equal.
Thus, he believed the junior captain who was telling fortunes and talking about golden crowns the night before Le Havre. Hornblower did not believe in fortunes, but Bush did; he had lived one. It served him well, had made him happy and more prosperous than he ever thought possible.
Nevertheless, the old woman's fortune only came partially true. She had also promised him a happy death, in bed, in a fine brick house with ironwork, surrounded by loving family with eyes as handsome as his.
Instead, the boy was blown to pieces over muddy waters in France. It was a noble death, as good as could be expected for a man of the Royal Navy who would not have known what to do with fine house and a loving family and the contentment of peace as opposed to the happiness of war even if he had lived to see them.
Nevertheless, in the end, it was death.
In the end, it was all that two pence and a blacksmith's boy from Chichester could buy.
Setup for the fortune teller from Grimm's 'The Bravest Little Tailor.' Story idea that ATE MY AFTERNOON from
black_hound Actually. *mind-tricks* You will ignore the fic. You will, intead, look at the whitest man alive and the best profile EVER, excuse the shiny nose.
Both caps from Nice Town, which
black_hound was kind enough to send me. ^____^
