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The Storyteller and the Gunpowder Plot
Yes, yes, I can hear you all now. Cries of "Don't be ridiculous", "silly woman" and "what on earth is she on about now?" are flying around the ether. Well, I know something you don't, you see. I know that, indeed, the Storyteller was VERY MUCH involved in the Gunpowder Plot and was quite "best friends" with Guy Fawkes. So here goes with the tale:
It was a dark, damp October evening in 1605, and the Storyteller was huddled in front of his fire surrounded by his thirteen cats (NO they weren't the same 13 cats as nowadays - don't be daft - cats don't live THAT long! Pardon? Neither do Storytellers do I hear you mutter? Well...that's all you know isn't it? May I carry on now, please?)
The wind whistled around the tumbledown chimney perched precariously on the top of his thatched cottage and giant hailstones plipped and plopped into the roaring fire, hissing and spitting as they did so. The thirteen cats were gradually withdrawing from the fire (they didn't much like being showered in hot steamy hailstone) but the Storyteller drew ever closer.
THUMP, THUMP, THUMP!!!
The Storyteller nearly fell out of his comfy chair onto the thirteenth cat who was gritting his teeth in the face of the ever increasing hailstones sputtering and spittering over his skinny, tabby body. The thirteenth cat decided to give up his place in front of the fire and skittered out to hide under the stairs where he felt he would be safe.
The Storyteller opened the door to a wet, bedraggled and red spotted figure (red spots from where the hailstones had been hurling themselves at his face). The Storyteller looked closer...Gor Blimey, it was his old friend Guy Fawkes (so called because he looked remarkably like all those dummies sitting around on street corners we are always falling over...what? THEY were called after Guy Fawkes? Well there's a thing! I never thought! Actually his real name was Guido - sounds a bit Italian doesn't it? Perhaps we will find out why! On the other hand...perhaps not!)
The Storyteller ushered his old friend into the warmth and sat him down in front of the fire. The thirteenth cat was particularly fond of Guy and crept out from under the stairs to climb carefully onto Guy's lap. Guy stroked the cat absent-mindedly.
"Need your help, Storyteller," he whispered, looking around him furtively.
"What with?" asked our friend.
"Plot in hand. Due to happen on the fifth of next month. Going to do in the King and all that!" muttered Guy.
"Why?" asked the Storyteller thoughtfully.
"Dunno really, don't like him much, myself, I have to say. But my friends don't like him even more if you get my drift. They have their reasons but that's not why I am here."
"What do you want me to do? I'm not overly fond of plots and the like, not much good at them either to be honest!" said the Storyteller.
The thirteenth cat jumped down at this, he wasn't overly fond of plots and the like either and decided to go back under the stairs.
"You'll be alright with this one. Just up your street." hissed Guy.
"All you have to do is be at the Houses of Parliament on 5th November and be ready to tell one of your tales."
"Are you sure that's all?" enquired The Storyteller. "If so, can't see a problem!"
Guy gathered himself together and slunk out of the door (conspirators always slink everywhere - that's why they're so easy to spot don't you know?).
"See you on the 5th then!" he grunted as he desperately tried to shut the door before the thirteenth cat, who had decided he didn't mind plots after all and was really VERY fond of Guy, capered out after him. In Guy's mind, cats and plots did not go well together...at all.
To be absolutely honest, the Storyteller forgot all about the 5th November, right up until the 4th when a bedraggled, skinny, tabby cat appeared at his door (yes, you've got it, the thirteenth cat HAD managed to get out of the house, had followed Guy back up to London, had got utterly and completely in the way of the plotting and conspiring that was going on, annoying all involved intensely, and had been sent back home in no uncertain terms with a message). Round its neck was one of those little barrels like rescue dogs in the Alps have - YOU KNOW! Inside the barrel was a piece of paper. It said:
"Remember, remember the 5th November..." (oh so THAT'S where the rhyme came from, I hear you saying).
The Storyteller packed up his bits and pieces, kicked the thirteenth cat into the kitchen and locked the door (the piece of paper also had something on it about thirteenth cats not surviving one more day if they reappeared in London) and left his cottage.
He hitched a ride with a pedlar (gosh, do you remember those?) and made his way slowly to the capital city.
Once there, and having divested himself of the buttons and bows, buckles and hairgrips the pedlar had "displayed" about his person as an advertising gimmick (payment for the lift you see), he walked across Westminster Bridge (what do you mean "Westminster Bridge didn't exist then?" - oh I see, you actually KNOW the date it was built do you? Well good on you!)...or shall I say the bridge which was where Westminster Bridge now exists (just in case) towards the Houses of Parliament.
He was walking past a bush when Guy leaped out and grabbed him, dragging him under the leaves with a hand firmly clamped over his mouth.
"Come with me," he whispered darkly.
They made their way down through a trapdoor into the very bowels of the Houses of Parliament where the rest of the conspirators were waiting, trembling with excitement and clutching bombs to their bosoms (actually, probably best not to clutch bombs to bosoms when trembling - quite dangerous in fact).
They told the Storyteller what they wanted him to do. The guards of the bowels of the Houses of Parliament were known to be very vigilant and, although they had been planning to drug them with laudanum (? some kind of old-fashioned sleeping pill I believe) they were SOOOO vigilant that it was felt they might refuse point blank (the ale in which the laudanum was to be mixed, NOT the laudanum itself since anyone with any sense would refuse that wouldn't they? Well, unless they suffered from insomnia I suppose...sorry, digressing here...in fact one of them did I believe - suffer from insomnia I mean, which was how he got the job in the first place - well it's quite a good qualification to hold for such a job isn't it? Really!)
ANYWAY, the idea was that the Storyteller would engage the guards of the bowels of the Houses of Parliament in a long and tedious storytelling session (the Storyteller privately thought that he "didn't do tedious" but kept quiet - the conspirators were trembling ever more violently and the bombs looked as if they were nearly ready to explode). This would keep them quiet whilst the conspirators placed the bombs and set them off.
The time came. The Storyteller found the guards, sidled up to them obsequiously (look it up!) and offered a tale or two. He who suffered from insomnia was quite pleased...the others were more doubtful but allowed themselves to be persuaded.
While preparing himself, the Storyteller couldn't help seeing in his mind those trembling conspirators and the nearly exploding bombs and wondering where on earth it would all end. Well, in an enormous explosion he supposed which was, after all, the whole point, but he just hoped it happened where it was supposed to happen and not somewhere else (like too close to where HE was if you see what I mean - or he meant - whatever!)
Unfortunately, because the trembling conspirators and the nearly exploding bombs were uppermost in his mind, the tale he told was one of conspirators and bombs, and Kings and Houses of Parliament and bowels of, kind of thing.
For a while the guards listened politely, but not really taking anything much in. Then the one with insomnia (see, I knew he would be important in the end) cottoned on to the gist of the tale. He started to shuffle his feet and look around him nervously. He got up and wandered to the door. He opened it and, wafting up through the dark entrails of the bowels of the Houses of Parliament (NOW HOW IS THAT FOR A METAPHOR?) could be heard...
"For heaven's sake Guy, mind where you are putting that bomb - I nearly fell over it..."
"Should a bomb go fuse upwards do you think? Or on its side? Or what?"
"Do you know? Am sure I saw that thirteenth cat of the Storyteller around here just now? Must be imagining things I suppose?"
"Am not sure if we are putting these bombs in the right place. Who has got the map of the bowels of the Houses of Parliament?"
"Hello Dolly...Hello Dolly..." (this from one of the conspirators who fancied himself as a songster)
"SSSSSHHHHH!!!!! STOP MAKING SO MUCH BLOOMING NOISE!!!! Oops!!"
...and so on.
The guards rushed out, gathered up the trembling conspirators and the nearly exploding bombs, threw them up the stairs and out into the courtyard (the bombs very nearly went off at that point - or would have done if they had had any gunpowder in them...didn't I mention the fact that the conspirators had been so trembling and excited they had forgotten to put any in!). From there they went straight to jail - from jail they went straight to the executioner's block. Say no more.
The Storyteller? Oh, he scuttled away, picking up the thirteenth cat as he went (oh yes, oh yes - since when would a locked kitchen door stop a cat from doing whatever it wanted?), found the pedlar who had driven him up there, bedecked himself with as many buttons, bows, buckles and whatnots as he could (as a disguise) and made his way swiftly back home.
Phew! Life soon went back to normal. Every so often the Storyteller would feel a pang of guilt at having told the wrong tale to the guards of the bowels of the Houses of Parliament, but then as the years went past and he looked out of the window at all the bonfires, fireworks and the like and the fun everyone had on 5th November, he would settle back in his comfy chair and think that perhaps he hadn't done so badly after all!