Geoffrey Chaucer died 606 years ago today. He was 57 and the first poet to be buried in Westminster Abbey. We salute you, Geoffrey.
I was lucky enough to be able to write as The Prioress in The Insomniac Tales by Chaucer’s Women. A project of several DLSIJ Press authors, it is a modernized Canterbury Tales. It’s in ebook and paperback. If you haven’t checked it out yet, please consider doing so. It was a fun project to work on, and biasedly, of course, I think it is a fun read.
Here is the prologue:
Herein begins the Book
of the Tales of Chaucer’s Women
When April with his showers sweet with fruit
The drought of March has pierced unto the root
And bathed each vein with liquor that has power
To generate therein and sire the flower…
It is in this regeneration time—this season we call spring—when within each of us stirs our own need for rebirth. The pounds must be shed. The impurities must be purged. The skin must be tanned, and the muscles must be toned. There must be a revival on the inside, just as there is a revival on the outside…in the budding trees, the yawning perennials, and the lengthening days. An equinox of the soul, if you will.
Or so it is at the Tabard Inn, Women’s Wellness Spa. In the springtime, they come in droves.
On this particular night, April’s sweet showers have taken on the more acrid taste of fury. The rain flies in hefty, harsh sheets against the windows of the Tabard Inn. The wind whips the trees from side to side, so that their silhouettes look like Barbie dolls in the hands of a two-year-old’s tantrum. Lightning cracks, and the boom of the thunder sends a quiver through the very foundation of the building and through every nerve of the being. Mother Nature is angry—or perhaps, simply orchestrating her own revival.
At this late hour, the halls of the Tabard are deserted. As night clerk, I alone am at the helm of this ship being violently tossed about—the mistress of my own fate, the captain of— Ah, but I must remain nondescript; this tale is not about me.
With a lurch in the sound that is only noticeable when it is gone, the power spontaneously ceases to surge. In the suddenly strobe-like world, I shut my English Lit textbook and begin gathering candles from the tables in the dining room. I light each one with my trusty butane that quickly predicts a nicotine fit. In a hellacious storm or under a no smoking sign, which will it be? I place the candles throughout the lobby area until it is dimly but adequately lit during those momentary pauses between lightning flashes. Arms akimbo, I survey the scene, and I am proud of myself.
And then like some scene from a zombie movie, they start to come—seemingly disgorged from the darkened staircase and into my earthly realm. Each appears disoriented by her surreal entrance and awkwardly tries to be nonchalant as she notices the presence of others. Whatever the need that drove each of them here, not one is so inclined to admit it. Fear of the storm, loneliness, anger, curiosity—whatever the reason for their insomnia, each and every one of them has clambered abroad my ship. Solemnly, I vow not to relinquish my helm.
Before I get ahead of myself and venture prematurely into this tale, however, it seems imperative that I distinguish each from every other in the crowd that has gathered in the candlelit lobby of the Tabard.
It is the Knight with whom I shall begin.
The Knight
Of all those assembled, the Knight seems to be the least affected by the brutal storm. As if completely at home in the near-darkness, Ileana Knight walks calmly about the room, with such ease and grace that she appears to float. Her features are striking: malachite green eyes, alabaster skin, full rubicund lips, and waist-length hair as black as a raven’s feather. Her long black robe, embroidered with golden dragons, has a mandarin collar that fastens itself tightly around her smooth, supple neck. Peeking out from her long sleeves, perfectly manicured fingernails boast the same deep red as her silken gown, barely visible at her robe’s hemline. So it is with Ileana Knight, fractured glimpses of her give insight, but do not reveal much of anything. She is beautiful, and yet just as profoundly, there is something unnerving about her very presence.
Her eyes methodically scan the room and its inhabitants, as if studying every detail, as if looking for something…or someone. At last, she fluently settles herself into a leather armchair, crosses her legs, and patiently waits.
The Squires
Another beautiful young woman stands toward the rear of the room, near the baby grand. As the lightning flashes on the piano’s high gloss, it illuminates the face of Elizabeth Squires, with her emerald eyes and an auburn mass of hair that cascades softly to her mid-back. Her presence at the Tabard differs greatly from the others. It is not a planned stay and has nothing to do with any desire for wellness. Rather, she had taken the only available room in town, after the storm had grounded her mother’s plane, which was supposed to be whisking her off to her next concert. Her mother, a diva, had taken the last single room at a posh hotel down the road, leaving this Squires at the mercy of the concierge, and now, the Tabard Inn.
If you believe the tabloids, Elizabeth Squires lives only for the moment and revels in shocking people’s sensibilities. While her exploits fill a lot of columns, the reporters insist she is wasting her life in pursuit of plebian pleasures, instead of using her position in society to better the world. At this juncture, she seems only concerned with the storm’s abatement.
The Prioress
There is a prioress among us this night, a Mother most Superior. Despite the lateness of the hour, she still wears a full and old habit. All that can be seen in this montage of black and white is her face and her hands—flawless and ivory—naturally deep red lips, and crystalline blue eyes. She sits elegantly on the leather sofa, her arms crossed succinctly across her torso, as she fingers the long rosary that is attached around her waist. Next to her, a young nun sits, and the prioress seems protective of her, but it is difficult to ascertain whether she is protecting the nun from the world or vice versa. Her eyes swoop from top of every cranium to tip of every digit, as a congenial smile assumes ownership of her face. While the smile is unrelenting, there is a telltale widening of the eyes as she spies too much cleavage, too much jewelry, and golden dragons. The beads of her rosary get an extra firm squeeze with each thing that widens her eyes.
The chef told me of an encounter she had had with her out back, as the prioress strolled the grounds on her morning ritual. The chef had just placed a saucer of milk for a battered and pregnant cat that apparently considers the Tabard Inn to be the Tabby Homeless Shelter. Upon seeing the scruffy feline, the prioress fell to her knees and sobbed, as she delicately stroked the cat. It took the chef the bribe of freshly squeezed orange juice and a promise to pray for the cat before she could get her away from the poor, hungry thing.
But here she is—well groomed, pleasant, and on a mission.
The Second Nun
Lillian is a nun in her mid-thirties who travels with the prioress. In fact, she is the prioress’s mission. Believing that Lillian is in need of physical and spiritual cleansing, the prioress brought her to the Tabard. Though outwardly respectful of her superior, Lillian seems a bit intimidated, thinking perhaps that she is pretentious and overbearing. If you could look at Lillian, as I can, then maybe it would all make sense to you.
Imagine a beautiful, sensual woman with soft, wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, and flawless skin. She has a smile that seems to radiate from her soul—a heat that makes her helplessly exude a bubbling, fiery passion from somewhere deep within. Then wrap this exotic creature in an austere appearance, remove any makeup, quell all desire, and give to her a true and abiding devotion to God. With this little recipe, you have Lilllian—and Lillian has a problem. She sits quietly on the sofa, seeming meek and lacking any spunk, and yet, a different life source, just beneath her skin, is almost palpable.
The Nun’s Priestess
A priestess—an unconventional spiritual seeker—brings herself to the lobby, as well. It is said that after years of battling an unjust system, she broke off from traditional religion and formed her own mystical order, made up of former nuns she considers friends. The quest of the order is the attainment of truth, and they mark their days by running a shelter for the abused. She seems to be traveling with the nun, Lillian, but it also seems as though the prioress remains unaware. I could be wrong, though; perhaps she just missed a turn on the highway and simply followed her intuition.
With fairy-like features, the priestess is of slight stature, has honey brown eyes, and the sprinkling of ivory in her short ebony hair seems as if it had been placed there by a mischievous pixie. Half-moons of silver dance from earlobes, and she dons a silvery-blue gown that ripples when she moves.
She seems to be an observer, drinking people in with her eyes, and then appearing to display a sense of satisfaction on her face, as if she completely comprehends their goodness and motivation. Arrogance does not accompany this process; rather, the other women seem to be drawn to and soothed by her presence.
The Merchant
Amid the others in the Tabard lobby is a merchant. She sells—actually, she sells better than anyone—this new fangled stuff called Tumblewrap. Apparently you warm the stuff in the microwave, and then you wrap it around objects like giftwrap. She evidently demonstrated this procedure by the mud baths the other night—except she used her behind to nuke the stuff. Sorry I missed that.
Our merchant’s name is Stormie Louise Uta Thelman. (One of the maids says she brought her own monogrammed towels with her. You spell out her initials; I’m trying to keep this clean!) Stormie’s hair is cut right below her prominent chin, and it appears to be culmination of blonde, honey gold, red, and brown. Her wrinkles are remarkably subdued by her makeup and by a suitcase that is rumored to be filled entirely with all the latest wrinkle-reducing products. She is about five seven and has yet to be seen without three-inch heels. She does have nice legs, and she claims that in her twenties she was a leg-model, until, of course, she got tired of not being respected above the waist. All in all, she is an attractive woman, and this, I assume, is what makes it possible for her to retain her tall, dark, and handsome husband of thirty-two.
I’m not at all sure if our merchant is here seeking wellness or simply Tumblewrap customers. The Tabard is known for its wealthy regulars, and Stormie was rather intent upon counting what she referred to as all the “chick cars in the front lot.” Even now, in the throes of a storm, she is smiling and winking at the others, motioning them over to speak with her, and swaggering around on her three-inch heels.
The Clerk
A clerk is also among the group, a perpetual student who craves knowledge more than wealth, more than life. Actually, it is her life, and she has never been seen around the Tabard without several old books tucked under her arm. Aristotle, mostly—perhaps she figures she must ascertain the true meaning of life before she can have one of her own. I don’t know; her aloofness makes it difficult to glimpse any other truth. Oh, but the poor masseuse made the grievous error of inquiring about one of her books. Perhaps when she discovers the true meaning and settles on a trade, she’ll find that the task of an orator might become her very well.
Average she is, what more can I say? She has an average build, average features, and is of average height—just plain average. Or maybe just plain. The T-shirt and jeans do not do much to change that.
The clerk had paid for her stay with a gift certificate. I don’t think anyone would be surprised by this little tidbit of information. She probably thinks it’s a scholarship. Regardless, it’s clear that she couldn’t afford it on her own. My guess is that the gift was from her mother, maybe in a desperate attempt to get her interested in anything other than books. They don’t make very good sons-in-law. My further guess is that a lightning bolt of an idea roused her from her sleep, more than the crack of it outdoors. She sits off to the side of the others, stroking the corner of her book.
The Cook
Standing near the baby grand is a cook. She is tall and well proportioned, with very broad shoulders. Blue-green eyes and auburn hair round her out even more.
She is enamored with the piano, and I think she finds the diva’s daughter to be too close to the ivory keys. You see, she has a passion for the piano, even after failing miserably in the famed Julliard. This is speculation, of course; even the Tabard grapevine sometimes turns out a sour grape. I do know, however, that her stay at the spa is being funded by one or more of the men who tickle her keys. Her phone has rung off the hook since she arrived: with men callers to numerous to count, and the travel agent who is arranging for the cruise that begins after her treatment here. I wonder what she really cooks.
The Saylor
Margaret Saylor is a middle-aged woman, clad in a T-shirt and shorts. She seems curious about the other women in the lobby, but avoids looking directly at them. It’s not like she doesn’t want to get caught staring impolitely, but rather, it’s as if she does not want to be seen. She seems like someone who is silently screaming and then wondering why no one can hear. The wedding band on her one hand and the mother’s ring (two stones) on the other might shed some light on that silent scream theory. I bet the kids and the husband gave her a weekend at the Tabard. Maybe they heard her scream in one grand moment of clarity. It has to be something like that, for if they had given it with love and not guilt, she’d be savoring the freedom and the luxury they afforded her. She’d be happy. But she’s not. She’s feeling guilty—and torn—and a tempest is brewing as much beneath her skin as it is outside.
The Wife of Bath
The Wife of Bath begs a mention in this room of unlikely characters. Ernestine Dally is in her late forties, and she has light brown hair with reddish highlights that rebuffs all gray. In truth, she is a plastic surgeon’s dissertation: perfect nose, perfect boobs, perfect legs, perfect arms…you get the idea. She is said to be rather well off, the cumulative result of five dead husbands’ hefty insurance policies. With each death, she’d invest in a bodily upgrade for herself, so she could ensnare the next mate. Her wealth doesn’t mean that she doesn’t work, though. No, in fact, she runs the Naughty Nightie lingerie company, a successful venture that provides women with all they’d ever need to enslave a man. She is at the Tabard for a little R and R, in the middle of her circuit between her thirty-nine stores. Her position is not purchased, either. She earned her MBA only a year ago, and she is quite determined to share her “pearls of wisdom” with everyone she encounters. And believe you me: She has a string of pearls that could probably reach every Naughty Nightie store and back again. She has a quite sizeable pearl about how men are dogs and all they really need is a little training. To complement these pearls, big, big diamonds adorn her neck and fingers.
While the Wife of Bath can be pushy, bossy, sniping, petulant, and childish, she’s also a savvy, successful older woman with a quick wit. She been there, done that, and most assuredly, could do it all again, if need be.
The Reeve
The Reeve—Olivia Reeve, to be exact—stands tall, and despite the long, tailored bathrobe of lightweight navy wool, she appears to be quite thin. Her grayish hair, cut short enough to be considered manly, frames a face with drab eyes that pierce through small wire-rimmed glasses. While the glasses are perched low, her nose is held mighty high, if you know what I mean. The whispers around the Tabard say that the old Reeve is a lesbian, with many a lover, but not a one willing to stay beyond the tryst.
From very humble beginnings, the Reeve rose and quite successfully so. She began as a secretary and worked very hard, taking night courses in accounting and management. She is now a property manager in her own lucrative business. While this rags-to-riches story seems utterly noble, it must be said that the Reeve takes under-the-table kickbacks from contractors and refuses to hire anyone beyond support staff for fear of relinquishing power. Her wealth is far more important than scruples or any feminist’s feat. If only her silver Mercedes could fit on a trophy shelf!
The storm has brought the Reeve to the lounge, but not in search of comfort. She is, in fact, indignantly convinced that somehow the weather and the resulting power outage are the fault of management.
The Summoner
One cannot help but notice the summoner in the group. (I call her the summoner because she is forever summoning room service, the maid, management…) The rotund, boozy, middle-aged woman is quite loud and self-absorbed. She wears gaudy clothes and sports long red fingernails with gold designs. Her hair is dyed a vivid red and is teased into a fantastic height, with artful spiral curls placed all around the enormous pile. I suspect that beneath this garish manifestation lurk the remnants of a beautiful woman.
She seems to be rather liked by the others, as she has an abundance of interesting stories and proficiency with sarcastic humor. On occasion, however, she fires dirty looks toward the religious ones; apparently, she once dated a man who abandoned her for the priesthood. Now, she lives with her wealthy fourth husband. From her stories about him, an assumption of his infidelity is easy to make, as is her obvious cluelessness about it all. At her request, he funded her extended stay at the Tabard. The boisterous mouse is away and quite well situated among the others gathered here.
The Pardoner
A pardoner stakes claim to a remote armchair in the lobby. I am not at all sure if she actually chose her position there, or if the others subconsciously arranged it, keeping her at a safe distance. She is small boned, and her poor posture makes her appear crumpled, or wilted, maybe. Her mousy blond hair, brassy at the tips and streaked with gray, hangs in oily strands on her shoulders. Three small crosses are affixed to her ears, with a fourth obviously missing from its infected hole, and, I am sorry to say, that infected hole quite resembles her gaping mouth.
What inhabits this disheveled shell is difficult to say. One moment, she comes across as smart, honest, and articulate, and in the very next, she is deceitful and manipulative. She calls herself a cyber-evangelist and is connected to a web site that is sponsored by a very credible born-again Christian leader. She travels continually, preaching and passing the hat. Perhaps she came to the Tabard to fill that hat.
Now that I have told you briefly, in a clause,
The state, the array, the number, and the cause
Of the assembling of this company…
Now it is time to tell you about what happens next in this little tale, for although they are all seeking sanctuary from something, there is no comfort to be had. The storm outside still rages, and inside, in this little candlelit room, the pleasantries have all run dry. Despite the cacophony of thunder, into a deafening silence they all descend. Perhaps their personalities are far too different; they cannot meld in any way that gives solace or safety. Some are mighty, some are meek, and I am sure by my descriptions of them, you know exactly who and what I mean. It is obvious that none are leaving, but I fear that the tension will turn to anger and the strong will turn on the weak. Hell hath no fury like a room full of insomniac women on a stormy night. Didn’t some writer say something that? If not, she should have!
But like I said, this is my helm!
“Ladies, ladies” I cajole, as I walk into the center of the room. “It doesn’t look like the storm’s going to be letting up anytime soon.”
For that big attempt to break the ice, I get a few polite smiles, a couple of blank stares, and maybe a roll or two of the eyes. Okay, so maybe that is not what that big icebreaker was supposed to get me, but it is a start.
I have an idea.
I thrust my hand into the pocket of my khaki pants. With a fluid twist of my wrist, the chinga-chinga of my keys garners me a few extra looks. “Looks like I have the keys to the kitchen and the wine cooler.”
Oh, I get even more looks and a couple of pleading smiles, and then as nearly all of them assume a rising position, I say, “Uh, uh, uh, not so fast.”
With this, they all plunk back down in their seats.
“If you want the wine—organic, of course—and the food—health food, of course—you will have to make a deal with me,” I propose, as I take the key ring from my pocket and shake it back and forth. “In trade, I will give you a sport to help you pass the time on this wickedly stormy night.”
Their curiosity is piqued. I can tell by the word “sport” being repeated by nearly everyone and by the glances that they exchange. Yes, I can hear the first drip, drip, drip in the icy room.
“Yes, a sport,” I answer, though no question had been audibly posed. “Each of you will agree to tell a tale. We will draw lots to see who goes in what order. Like the civilized women that you are, you will let each one tell her tale from beginning to end, without interruption. When it’s your turn, you will have the floor to yourself.”
“And what is the sport in that?” one of them bellers, and I bet, by now, you know which one.
“The wine and food,” I remind.
“That’s not a sport,” another one decides. “Celery? Carrots? Baby portabellos? No, there has to be a real prize.”
My helm, I remind myself, as I steal a big breath.
“A real prize!” one begins, and then the rest join her.
It slowly turns into a loudening mantra; our Transcendental Meditation instructor would be so proud! I half expect fists to be pounded on the tables to keep a primal beat.
“Okay! Okay!” I concede. “I will judge your tales, from beginning to end, and the best tale-teller will get the prize. What do you want the prize to be? Remember, though, I am a lowly night clerk, so make it reasonable.”
There is discussion among them now; they are suddenly on the same side. I know there is solace in that.
The discussion continues for a short while, but there is no consensus reached. I search my own mind for what the prize could be, but before I can think of anything, a meager voice from the crowd says, “That Hostess Ho Ho.”
“What Ho Ho?” the question comes, but on the voices of many.
I clear my throat, and then again. “What Ho Ho?” I ask.
“The Ho Ho you have hidden behind the reception desk,” the meager voice answers, and again, I bet you can guess its owner.
“You have a Ho Ho?” the choir chimes in.
Knowing I do not have quick access to a chair and a whip, I think it best just to admit being in the possession of a sugar-laden, preservative-filled, always a no-no at a women’s wellness spa…yes, I have a Ho Ho, a cream-filled sliver of heaven!
“Okay,” I concede once more. “Winner takes all. A Ho Ho it shall be.”
I toss my keys in the direction of one with vows not to steal, and off they all go in the quest of sustenance. I will use this time to prepare for my challenge, and deep inside I hope that I do not live to regret it. I head to my desk and sequester the lone Ho Ho in a drawer. This snack cake has suddenly become like gold, and it must be protected. Then I turn my attention to the issue of drawing lots. Something simple…ah, I’ve got it!
Carefully, I remove the liner from the small trashcan under my desk. Then I grab the page-per-day calendar—Health & Beauty Tips for the Goddess on the Go—and I turn back time to the first of February. After ripping out the first thirteen days, leaving Valentine’s Day as untouched as it had left me, I shuffle and toss the numbered pages into the empty trashcan. I am ready, and just in time, for my midnight menagerie has concluded its pilgrimage to the kitchen.
Again, they all assume their positions in the candlelit lobby, as small trays of crackers and cheeses and veggies are set on the mahogany tables. I am pleased to discover that they only brought two bottles of wine with them, rather than the thirteen I had feared. Glasses are filled and passed, and one is even handed in my direction. With the requirements met, all eyes turn to me.
“If any one of you chooses not to tell a tale, you must say so now,” I demand, and I scan the room looking for any dissenters among us. Finding none, I continue, “Then we have an agreement. Your oaths have been sworn. You will each tell a tale, and you will respect every other as she tells her own. If anyone rebels against the rules of this sport, she shall be forced to buy Ho Ho’s for us all. Deal?”
Each head eventually nods. Some look quite up to the challenge, very eager to begin. Some look reluctant, perhaps unsure of what they’ve gotten into, or maybe just unsure of themselves. Either way, I am sure that all with take part.
“Okay. Then we shall draw lots to determine the order,” I say, as I thrust the trashcan into the direction of Miss Knight. “Just grab a piece of paper, and your fate you will know.”
The Knight confidently extracts her choice. Then, I move the trashcan toward the Mother most Superior, who makes her choice, but her eyes widen as she sticks her immaculate hand into the can.
“Your turn, clerk,” I say, shifting the can nearer our perpetual student. “Put your book aside. Come on, now. There no need to be shy or to ponder the matter anymore. Just let the fates decide.”
Soon, each has drawn a numbered sheet, and to make this long tale a bit shorter, the first day of February belongs to the Knight—a fact that seems to make most of them happy with relief.
When this good woman, the Knight, sees that she is the first to go, she says, “Since I am the one to begin this game, let’s get on with it, and please pay heed to what I have to say.”
With her words, we are well on our way into this stormy night of tales, dreading and anticipating, but finally with a common bond to share.
The Knight begins to speak, with poise and most willingly, and her tale you shall soon hear, exactly as it is written on the very next page.
Here ends the prologue of this book
and here begins the first tale,
which is the knight’s tale.
