The Story of Misrule
In the shadowed town of Evermore, where the river flowed black as midnight and the moon was a bright beaming yellow, the annual Carnival of Chaos was a time of unbridled revelry, a celebration of the absurd where the lines between order and misrule blurred beyond recognition.
This year, the “Lord of Mischief,” a mysterious figure cloaked in swirling shadows, had taken the reins, promising a night of unfathomable mayhem.
As the crimson sun dipped below the jagged peaks, and the moon took its place, the Town Square was transformed into a stage of twisted delights. Jugglers tossed flaming torches that danced erratically, their laughter echoing through the cobbled streets. Musicians played discordant melodies on instruments cobbled together from scrap, while acrobats tumbled through the air, their movements more chaotic than graceful.
This was the time of the annual festivities that took place as the inhabitants of this small town descended into the outer-lying regions where the ruling class lived in their mansions, estates and even castles. They celebrated this time of Misrule by entertaining each other before that one special night where they swapped roles and took over as Lords and Ladies.
All year long these townspeople and farmhands and domestic servants would work to ensure the life of the gentry were orderly and well-cared for. They made sure the horses were ready for the hunting parties that took place during the season; they ensured the food was hot and ready for consumption; they scrubbed and cleaned these great estates until the floors cast a shiny glow and the silver twinkled in the light; they washed the linens, keeping them fresh and ready for those cold winter nights. They weaved the loom and even mended the socks of the children of the gentry. They alone kept things running at an even pace with no interruptions.
The Gentry and Ruling Class in turn would allow those that served their pompous life into their Great Halls inviting them to take a seat at their tables and this yearly tradition, the time of Carnival and Misrule, was now upon us. The Gentry would become the servants and the servants would become the Noblemen and Noblewomen whom they served all year long. This was a great opportunity to blow off steam for the working class, and have a little fun.
Among the throng of party goers, a young baker named Elara, known for her sweet, delicate pastries, found herself swept into the vortex. She watched in disbelief as the usually stoic blacksmith, a man known for his iron will, was now a dancing fool, twirling a flaming chain with a wild grin.
The town magistrate, notorious for his rigid adherence to the law, was now clad in a jester’s outfit, cracking jokes that made the crowd roar with laughter.
“Elara! Put down your baking pans and come join us!” He bellowed from the chaos of revelers that lined the street.
Elara had always been a quiet soul, content with the rhythm of her oven and the simple pleasure of baking. She looked forward to bringing her artisanal delights into the Great Kitchens of the Ruling Class and meeting with the cooks and pastry chefs who worked for them, catching up on the latest gossip.
But tonight the intoxicating spirit of the Carnival seemed to seep into her very bones. She sprung from her small bakery and joined the crowd. They rounded the corner, and she found herself drawn to a booth where a mischievous-looking woman, with eyes that twinkled like stars, was selling “Chaos Cookies.”
“One bite, and you’ll see the world differently,” the woman purred, her voice laced with a hint of magic. Elara, captivated by the woman’s allure, took a bite. The taste was unlike anything she had ever experienced, a strange blend of sweet and spicy with a lingering aftertaste of pure, unadulterated chaos.
Suddenly, she felt a surge of energy, a desire to join the madness. She pulled the ribbons and beads from nearby trees and lamp posts and adorned herself with flare. A stranger wrapped a luxurious cloak around her shoulders and Elara, inspired by all the wild laughter, began to dance, her movements as unpredictable as the flames that flickered around her. She twirled, she leaped, and she laughed, her usually reserved demeanor completely forgotten.
As the night wore on, Elara found herself somehow now leading this band of revelers, her chaotic dance drawing in even the most reluctant participants. She was no longer the timid baker, but now, with a great shiny bejeweled crown resting on her head, she had transformed into the “Queen of Misrule.” Her laughter and song echoed through the streets of Evermore.
Elara led the small town down the ravines, across the footpath and into the Greatest Estate in the Region, that of Thomas and Genevieve Winchester.
But, where did this all begin… We have to go back to the beginning.
Centuries and decades before, in the ancient Roman city of Ostia, where the Tiber River met the sea, a young cattle herder, Lucius, was known for his infectious laughter and mischievous grin. During the winter solstice, when the days were short and the nights long, the people of Ostia held a festival dedicated to Saturn, the god of harvest and time, a celebration marked by revelry and a temporary inversion of social order.
This year, the festival goers decided to choose a “Lord of Misrule” – a temporary king to preside over the festivities, the feasts and the chaos this ritual brought. To no one’s surprise, they selected Lucius, the cattle-herder, who, with his wild hair and commanding demeanor, seemed perfectly suited for the role.
On the day of the festival, Lucius, adorned in a crown of wheat stalks and a patchwork robe, led the procession through the cobblestone streets, singing nonsensical songs and encouraging everyone to dance and jest. He playfully teased the patricians, mimicking their pompous mannerisms, and even dared to flirt with the high priestess of the temple, much to the amusement of the crowd.
The highlight of the festivities was the “Feast of Fools,” where Lucius, as the Lord of Misrule, declared that for one day, all social hierarchies were overturned. The slaves were served by their masters, the merchants danced with the laborers, and even the most serious senators and oracles of the day were encouraged to indulge in silly antics.
As the night wore on, however, Lucius did sense a growing unease among the more conservative citizens. They feared the chaos was becoming a threat, and the more esteemed class of people such as the priests felt the mockery of their social standing was disrespectful. There were rumors the festival of Saturnalia itself might be banished from tradition and all festival goers may be imprisoned for their manner of worship.
Lucius, with his keen understanding that his people need a time of celebration after incurring injury and sickness over the year from the back-breaking labor that was expected of them, was able to swiftly remedy these concerns and put these threats of criminalizing Saturnalia to rest by reminding his esteemed owners that they benefited all year from the obedience of their slaves and wouldn’t they rather have one day or one night of Misrule rather than an entire year of rising tensions that could lead to their very overthrow?
The priests and senators of the region appreciated Lucius in that moment and all agreed that the festivity of Saturnalia should continue with no interruption from them.
When he was back herding the cattle the next day, Lucius pondered the experience. He realized that while the temporary inversion of order had brought laughter and joy, it also exposed the underlying tensions. He decided that the true power of “misrule” lay not in causing chaos, but in reminding everyone, even those in power, of their shared humanity.
From then on, Lucius continued to participate in the Saturnalian celebrations and vowed to pass on this tradition to the generations after him, and with each year for hundreds of years, ensured that the revelry remained playful, while still honoring the spirit of the festival – the temporary release from societal constraints, allowing everyone to be a little bit foolish, even if it was only just for a day.
Back in the present day, the Winchester children pressed their faces against their bedroom window in eager anticipation of the Night of Misrule. “Soon enough, dearies,” Nanny Michele whispered, while squinting her eyes and focusing on the band of merry revelers making their way down the hillside toward the great home.
“I can hear them,” said Priscilla, kicking off her fancy socks and pulling on plain, wool socks and inching out of her party dress into a plain smock. Nanny Michele wrapped a kerchief around her head and her eyes lit up. “Pretty as a little picture. Run downstairs. You’re on cookie duty!”
Priscilla leapt to her feet and with boundless energy made her way down the hall, used the great winding railing of their magnificent staircase to slide down to the first floor, then made her way through the dining hall, ran through an adjacent room and down two small steps until she arrived in the kitchen.
“They’re almost here!” She shouted at the top of her lungs, deftly moving the baking sheets of warm cookies and pastries that had just come out of the oven out onto the great wooden counter where she could carefully place them on their finest plates and serving trays.
Thomas, Jr. grabbed his work-boots and ran out of the room. “Thomas, you forgot something!” Nanny Michele held out a small bag and Thomas quickly put it into his pocket and ran down to the Great Hall to meet with his father.
Thomas, Sr. and his wife Genevieve had been preparing all day for the one night of Misrule that would descend upon their home. They looked at each other in quiet anticipation before she turned away quickly to meet with Priscilla in the kitchen.
Their staff of cooks, housemaids, stable boys and servants had disappeared and it was left up to the Winchester Family to ensure their visitors were treated to everything they could possibly want or need.
In turn, the merry men and women of Evermore would treat the house itself with respect. Only once, years ago, did the wild raucous night go too far and they were ghostly close to losing their long-standing tradition with the Winchesters.
The night had grown wild with music and dancing and the wine was flowing endlessly. As it happened, a small crystal vase came crashing to the floor. The delicate sound of crashing crystal on the gleaming marble floor brought everything to a standstill. The revelers stopped their wild dancing quite short, the music suddenly stopped and all smiles vanished from every face in the Great Home, eyes widened in horror.
But Genevieve, knowing her role for the night, didn’t say a word. She quickly fled to the kitchen and pulled out a broom and dustbin and with great elegance and as swift as a ballerina, knelt down and swept up the remnants of the precious artifact without even murmuring a single complaint.
The revelers, some of whom had dusted that very artifact off countless times during their cleaning duties, looked on with deep concern, expecting the Mistress of the Home to stand tall and regal and demand these rowdy revelers leave her home at once. But instead she quietly left the room and discarded the remnants without ever uttering a word. The revelers immediately went back to cavorting, dancing and drinking.
Since then, not a plate was scratched, not a smidgen of anything in the Great Home had ever even been knocked out of place.
“Are you ready?” Thomas, Sr. squeezed the shoulder of his son and looked into his bright blue eyes.
“Ready, sir!” Thomas, Jr. opened the door.
“Welcome home, my dear Lords and Ladies!” Thomas, Sr. raised his hand to the air and in a gesture of deep respect, took one long deep bow to the revelers as they poured into his home.
Cloaks and noisemakers were carelessly piled into the waiting arms of Thomas, Jr. who scurried to find a place to keep them.
Thomas, Sr. met Elara and bowed graciously in her presence.
“The Queen I presume?”
Elara nodded her head and held out her gloved hand, allowing it to be kissed, “You presume correct, dear Servant.”
Thomas, Sr. led Elara and her Procession to a great hall where Genevieve and Priscilla were standing quietly in the corners, ready to swiftly fill the wine glasses or refill the platters of food if need be.
“Your journey must have been long and full of excitement. Now that you are home, please sit here at your table and rest, eat. We servants have made a bountiful feast for you and afterward, my little servant Priscilla has made you some sweet treats of pastries and pies and cookies.”
“Is it a Chaos Cookie?” Elara asked demurely and the entire band of merry revelers roared with laughter.
The candles were lit, the wine was poured and over the next few hours Elara and her Procession feasted and drank until there wasn’t a scrap of food left on the table to partake in.
Priscilla quietly stepped out of her place in the corner and offered a tray of sweet treats to Elara, “If you please Mum?”
“Thank you my sweet child. I think I shall take them in the parlor.”
“As you wish, mum,” said Priscilla, and gave a quick curtsy.
Elara pushed her chair out from the Great Dining Table and stood to her feet. All the revelers quieted their banter and did the same.
“Allow me, your Grace.” Thomas, Sr. held out his arm and led Elara to the parlor, which had been decorated with gold and red ribbons, a stunning Evergreen stood in the corner with boxes of ornaments and ribbons and beads and all manner of decor to adorn the luscious tree.
The Green tapestries were pulled back to reveal a winter wonderland outside, with the moon glistening on the white wintry landscape, and at each end of the tapestries were small gold buckets that held the tall bouquets of crisp white winter primrose and camellia flowers gathered from the fields. The great parlour, adorned with soft candles and with its luxurious furniture placed for the revelers to lounge on, and the stately finely tuned grand piano commanding anyone who wishes to tinkle the ivory, smelled of pine and warm cinnamon, the seasonal aroma was absolutely intoxicating and the perfect setting for Elara and her Royal Procession.
Immediately the town’s school teacher, dressed as a maiden with small white flowers encircled in her braided locks, sat down to the piano and started playing an ancient Evermore song that seemed to cast a spell over everyone in the room.
Genevieve quietly stood next to her husband as he poured hot cups of coffee and placed them gently onto a gleaming silver tray. “I wonder how Nanny Michele fares.” She whispered.
“I’ll go find her. I imagine she’s in her usual place.” He whispered back. “In my study, her nose deep into a book with the half drunken glass of port ready to spill onto the couch. Will you do the honors, my dear?”
He handed his wife the tray filled with hot cups of coffee.
“Of course,” she accepted the tray with a mocking curtsy and started her rounds, offering cups of coffee to the Lords and Ladies of the House while young Priscilla placed a cookie or two on the saucers that held the delicate cups.
Thomas, Sr. made his way out of the festive parlor and back through the long hallway. He slowly entered his dark study, with its volumes of old books lining the shelves on the wall, and piles of notes and scattered sketchings strewn across his desk and as he quietly pushed his door open it was as he suspected. Nanny Michele was slumbering soundly on his couch, the book loosely cradled in her hand and a mostly empty small glass of port in the other. He deftly pulled the book from her loose grip, and placed it quietly on the table, setting the glass of port next to it. He pulled the wool afghan from the end of his looming couch and gently placed it over her frail body. While Nanny slumbered in dreamland, he quietly stoked the fire to revive the dying embers lest Nanny catch a chill on this winter night. His study was cavernous and cold and happened to be the chilliest room in their Great Home. Even so, Nanny always chose it as a place of refuge on this night, the Night of Misrule.
As the night wore on and the wine flowed freely, the procession of revelers and party-goers became rowdier and rowdier. There was cavorting, dancing, twirling and general mayhem. The soft dulcet tones from the piano had turned into sharp, loud staccatos and a melody of jigs no one had heard before. Priscilla and Genevieve found themselves swept up into the dancing and party atmosphere, their bodies being twirled under the starry, vaulted ceiling in the parlor by strange men and women. The tumblers moved outside onto the snow and were twisting their lithe bodies into wild and crazy acrobatics while holding jugs of wine and those watching from the giant picture window inside the parlor roared with laughter, encouraging the tumblers to perform even more ridiculous antics. There were snowball fights, kissing and rolling around in the snow, absurd snow angels (and devils) appearing in the white powder below. Inside, the crowd from the parlor spilled out into the hall and were playing games, finding quiet shadowy nooks to disappear in and engage in carnal desires, while the children stuffed their faces with cookies and cakes and hung lights and ornaments on the Christmas tree. They loaded up their pockets with candy and found brightly wrapped gifts waiting for them to rip open and reveal the toy inside.
The Winchester mansion was ablaze on the hillside, light spilling out of the windows, illuminating the dark, chilly night the moon shining graciously to light up the velvety sky. How could any random passerby resist walking into the home and being swept up into the magical, raucous, festive cabal.
Thomas, Jr. was the one person in the Winchester family who was nowhere to be seen in the midst of this orgy of jubilant raucousness. He was actually in charge that night and took his role seriously . His job was to ensure that any late-comers felt welcome. He would welcome them in, give them a glass of wine or hot cider and lead them to their party. If anyone was seeking more food or needed to step outside to use the privy, he was in charge of showing them the way so no one would get lost. It was a big house and he was there to make sure everyone, including Priscilla and even his parents, had everything they needed to make sure it was going smoothly.
He never forgot the first time he was sat down and told that from now on, the ultimate responsibility would go to him.
It was the year prior, when he was 10 years old.
One year ago, after the Night of Misrule had ended and dawn was rising and the house was quiet again, and the servants went back to their posts to clean up the dishes and scattered mess that the revelers left behind and after Priscilla was tucked in bed, Thomas, Sr. and Genevieve called for Thomas, Jr to meet in the study.
He sat on the couch and his parents pulled up two chairs. He knew this was going to be an important conversation so he paid close attention despite it being dawn and he knew he needed to get some sleep. His mother handed him a hot cup of cocoa.
He sipped the cocoa as his father spoke.
“Do you know why we do this, son?” His father asked.
Thomas, Jr. shook his head slowly.
“We allow the servants and the groundskeeper and the chefs and the cooks and even the cleaners to pretend they’re noblemen and noblewomen one night because they work very hard and deserve a night to ..”
“To just have fun, father.” Thomas answered. “Everybody likes to have fun. I understand.”
‘Yes, that’s right.” His mother Genevieve said.
His father produced a small black velvet bag.
“Have you ever seen this before?” His father asked.
Thomas, Jr. shook his head. “I don’t think so..”
“This bag is filled with gold coins.”
Thomas’s eyes widened.
His father handed him the bag and the boy opened it and pulled out a few gold coins and looked at them. He carefully placed the coins back into the bag and gave them back to his father.
“Every year, we choose one person from the group, the group that we invite into our home and switch roles with us, we choose one person to give this bag of coins to. The gold coins are then dispersed among the town of Evermore and it goes to what the townspeople need, or want. It’s not our job to dictate how they use the coins.”
“It’s our special way of giving back to the people that make our lives run so well and make us so comfortable so we can do what we need to do for you and your sister.” His mother added.
“Next year, when you are 11 years old, the duty of deciding who shall receive the gold coins goes to you. I think you’re old enough and can discern who to best give the coins to.”
Thomas, Jr. nodded and then finished his hot cocoa. “Thank you father. Thank you mother.” He said, placing his empty cup of cocoa on the table next to the couch.
His mother embraced him, “Goodnight Thomas. Get some good sleep. You did very good tonight. We will have a late breakfast and an easy day tomorrow.”
He nodded to his father and said “Goodnight father,” feeling very proud and honored that his father would hand over this responsibility to him.
Now, here we are a year later and Thomas, Jr. still hadn’t decided to whom the coins would be gifted. He wandered down the hall remembering this talk he had with his mother and father a year ago and wondering who, of the band of merry revelers, he would choose. He saw his father very gently close his door to the study. He quietly went up to him, “Is Nanny in her usual spot?” He whispered.
“Yes,” Thomas, Sr. responded. “All’s well.”
“All’s well here too sir.”
“Excellent, son. Keep it up. We’re counting on you. I’d best get back to helping your mother.”
Thomas made his way upstairs and opened the door to the reading room where he and Priscilla met with Mr. Chase, their tutor, three times a week. The boy was expecting the room to be empty but to his utter shock some candles were lit and there was a small glow of an oil-lamp coming from the far corner of the room.
At first he was afraid but then he stood up very straight and reminded himself his father was counting on him.
He walked as deftly as a panther under an inky black sky and found a fairy sitting in the corner reading in the low light. He stumbled back and in doing so bumped into his drawing table, knocked over a chair and made quite a stir. The fairy quickly turned off the oil-lamp and Thomas could hear her suck in her breath, then she sat very still in the corner, not making a sound.
“Who are you?” Thomas’s voice was a whisper. All he could see was the fairy’s wings shimmering in the low light, her bright golden shiny hair like a halo on her head and her gown was a material he’d never seen before, it seemed iridescent with shiny folds of purple and green and gold encircling her.
The fairy stood and Thomas took a quick step back, his heart in his throat.
The fairy was only slightly shorter than Thomas, who at age 11, was lanky for his age and still “growing into his muscles” as Nanny liked to say.
“My name is Flora.” the small twinkly voice said. It sounded like glass cutting through the air.
She stepped a bit closer and Thomas moved back away from her, to the corner of the room where she was sitting. He turned on the oil-lamp and picked up the book she was reading.
He was finally able to see her clearer with the light turned up higher. Her face was very sparkly and and she wore a crown of little flowers and gold ribbon in her blonde hair.
“What are you doing in my room?” He asked.
“I like books.” She said. “But I don’t know how to read.”
His mouth fell open.
“Do fairies not read?” he asked.
She laughed and it was like twinkling bells in his ears.
“I’m not a fairy you silly boy! I play a fairy in the Evermore Carnival.”
It was at that moment that Thomas knew who he would be gifting the little bag of gold coins too. He realized with sudden clarity that some children were given things, like tutors that taught them how to read, and some children were not.
It was as if Thomas had stepped into another world where suddenly everything made sense all at once and at the same time didn’t make sense. For an 11 year old to come to such an intense and riveting realization on the night of the great feast was almost too much for him, and yet, he somehow knew this was the way things were all along and that’s what his parents were trying to tell him a year ago when they entrusted him with the task of giving the gold coins to someone worthy.
His father’s stern words echoed deep down into the memory of his very soul, “We have a responsibility to be kind and benevolent to those less fortunate than us.”
He sat down and looked at his hands and felt as if he was about to cry. It was too much to bear.
Flora saw Thomas’s dejected look and the twisted anguish that darkened his kind face and felt afraid.
“I’m very sorry,” Flora’s voice was like a little song. “I know I don’t have a right to be in here but I was curious…”
Thomas immediately stood up and said “You have every right to be here. You have just as much a right as anyone.”
What Thomas didn’t realize is that his mother had gone upstairs to look for him and was quietly watching this little interlude without him knowing. She breathed in deeply, wishing she could explain to him why it was that someone like Flora was never given the chance to learn to read and someone like Thomas was.
She stepped quietly away and made her way quietly back down the staircase to attend to the Lords and Ladies. Dawn was breaking soon and that meant the Winchester home would be hers again but not before the officiation of the handing over of the gold coins.
Suddenly remembering his role, Thomas stood up and bowed to Flora, “My dear Miss. May I escort you downstairs to the others?”
She smiled happily and took his hand. They both saw that the morning light was breaking and the crisp sounds of daylight were just starting to come alive. They knew it would soon be time for her to depart.
Together they walked down the staircase.
As they neared the bottom of the staircase, Flora’s mother, a woman dressed like Little Bo Beep who lost her sheep broke through the crowd, “Flora, I told you not to wander off.”
“I’m terribly sorry Ma’am.” The woman said to Genevieve.
Genevieve only smiled. She reached for Priscilla’s hand and both she and her husband and Priscilla stood on the staircase behind Thomas.
The band of merry revelers looked tired but happy and were not exactly looking forward to the long walk back to Evermore. They stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up at the Winchesters.
Thomas pulled the small black velvet bag of cold coins from his pocket.
With very little ceremony and with no pomp or circumstance or even a speech he simply said, “Flora. For you. To do with as you wish.”
Flora slowly made her way to the stairs and took the bag of coins from Thomas.
“Thank you sir.”
When the first rays of dawn broke, Evermore’s Carnival of Chaos faded into the morning light. Elara hung up her crown and went back to her bakery. The new year was coming and the gentry expected trays of pies in celebration. She set about to her task. She smiled to herself. For one night she was the Queen of Misrule, and was forever changed by the taste of the Chaos Cookie. She carried that spark of mischief in her eyes, and sometimes one could catch that secret smile that hinted at the wild night, when she embraced in the spirit of misrule.
The Winchesters, high up on the hill and around the ravine, across the footpath were far enough away from Evermore but still close enough to wonder of the small town’s fate. As the dawn broke the grey sky, they made their way into their beds and slept soundly, late into the afternoon.
The Evermore Council met quietly the next day and decided the yearly gift of gold coins would be to fund the first Evermore School. After it had been decided the town returned to its usual order, the blacksmith back to his forge, the magistrate to his court.
And Flora, the little fairy girl who found herself face to face with a lord of the manor, seemed to find a place in the heart of a boy who would grow to be a man of deep conviction, always entering every decision he made with a sense of fairness and generosity to the world around him and forever keeping the celebration and dizzying magic of the season of Misrule.
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