Monsieur Mort et Monsieur Montaigne

In an abattoir a unicorn was running amok. As soon as it was led into the slaughterhouse its equestrian eyes fell upon other unicorns hung upside down with their guts being removed creating a messy splatter as they hit the floor. Everybody tried to avoid getting trampled on by this horned quadruped. Certain beasts were left half killed and therefore suffering unbearably. The gryphons were squawking at such an ear piercing decibel they agitated the unicorn.

Meanwhile at Michel de Montaigne’s home his servant was preparing his master a drink of the finest quality that man could ever appreciate. He held the glass up to his enormous conk and exhaled in great joy. Outside of the essayist’s house a figure in a black cloak with a crooked rusty scythe in his right hand and an oversized hourglass in the other stood majestically against the French blue sky. He was stood outside Montaigne’s wall. A wall that wasn’t really a wall but rather a piece of rope circumnavigating the grounds. The essayist believed that the more protected a home was then the more attractive it was to burglars and other ne’er do wells. The cloaked figure glided across the grounds towards the front door. Ruby and golden leaves parting from his sandaled feet fluttering onto the nearest earthworm coming up for fresh air. Back inside Montaigne was sat by his fireplace cracking his knuckles. Awaiting the arrival of his beloved servant Godard he gazed up at his ornate ceiling and contemplated on the workmanship that went into such a thing. Montaigne then thought to himself how extraordinary it was that such a state of affairs should occur.

The unicorn was still acting very much the demolition expert in the abattoir. The workmen began to curse those with exotic tastes, especially those who dined on unicorn. Reinforcements were needed and a young apprentice was sent out bloodstained to fetch them. In the meantime the unicorn would have to panic itself into exhaustion whilst worked carried on as normal. They would have to contend with ducking to avoid being brained by a back hoof. Yetis and mermaids can’t gut themselves.

Godard placed the goblet in Montaigne’s hand. He asked his master if he would like the fire to be lit. Montaigne declined with a polite kindness. Godard nodded at him with solemn respect. The moment was broken by a slow steady and loud knock. Montaigne informed Godard, “You know what to do.” Godard respectfully nodded and shuffled slowly across the room towards the front door.

The young apprentice arrived at the farm which specialised in raising exotic creatures for French nobles to dine on. At the gatepost an emaciated dusty looking figure was scratching his stubble, creating tiny sparks. This repulsive smelling persona was one of the farmhands. He turned and glared at the bloodstained young apprentice striking the fear of God into him. He asked to see the farmer himself. The farmhand belched and beckoned the young boy to follow his lead. The farmer listened to the boy’s story. Breaking wind as he arose from the milking stool he walked to his farmhouse with his wooden stump making a clacking sound. Three minutes later the farmer returned with a unicorn crossbow. “Come on, boy. We’ve got the monarchy to feed.” And he led while the boy followed. In the meantime the scared stiff unicorn in the abattoir was showing no signs of letting up. The slaughterers tried to work as normal but some did get knocked unconscious by a flying back left. From the unicorn’s point of view this was an inescapable hell. He clearly did not want to be killed but moreover he definitely did not wish to be in his present environment. Perhaps he recognised some kith, maybe he recognised some kin. In any case the scent of a satyr’s blood was affecting his behaviour that the workers attempted to beat it to death with sticks or anything at hand. One labourer even threw an axe which became embedded in the beast’s rump. To hear a unicorn scream in pain is the reverse of hearing a blue whale sing in the deepest depths of the ocean blue. The labourers of the slaughterhouse that specialised in killing exotic creatures and preparing their meat (with mermaid meat being a job for veteran workers) covered their ears with superhuman strength. The sound was that unearthly. However in the midst of chaos there is always calm. And that calmness was personified in the one legged farmer and the bloodstained young apprentice. Neither was fazed by the unicorn’s torturous screams. Their minds were concentrated on the job at hand, slaughtering an animal that cannot be reassured. The farmer lifted up his crossbow, made an aim and fired shooting the arrow directly through the creature’s mouth. The beast fell in a heap to the floor. “Now what has happened,” Declared the farmer, “must never leave this room.” He removed the arrow that had shot through the top of the head and ordered the young boy to sew up the hole. Everybody returned to work whether it be clubbing cherubs to death or removing the offal from gorgons. The latter being a very unenviable job indeed. The one legged farmer left the blood soaked building of food production.

Godard arrived at the door and with much effort opened it welcoming the scythe carrying figure in black. “Do come in sir.” Godard was given strict instructions to allow in anybody who came to the door no matter whom. The figure in black was aware of this but was still surprised when it actually happened. “Um, right. Hello, sir.”
“You wish to see Monsieur Montaigne?”
“Yes, sir.” Replied the figure.
“Then follow me, sir.” And the figure in black was led to Michel de Montaigne by his servant.
“Out of interest sir, what is your name?” Godard enquired.
“It’s..Oh…It’s…Oh dear, I’ve seem to have forgotten.”
“Never mind sir.” Godard smirked and led the figure to the French essayist who in turn stood up in respect.
“Whom do I have the honour of addressing?”
“This is a labourer from the cornfields who has evidently forgotten his name.”
“Well don’t be amused by such an unfortunate state of affairs Godard. Sir, you have my sympathy and may sit on the chair opposite. Godard, you are dismissed.”
“Very good sir. Shall I light the fire sir?”
“No, no, no. Don’t be ridiculous. Return to your quarters and wait until I call you again.”
“Thank you sir.” Godard turned and walked geriatically out of the room. Montaigne’s guest feeling more than a little sheepish turned to the essayist and said, “Actually I do feel a mite cold. I hope it won’t create too much trouble to get a fire started? I don’t wish to create a fuss or put anyone out.”
Montaigne assured the mysterious stranger that it would be no trouble. “Godard!”
And Godard turned and walked at the speed of one footstep per fortnight. “Would it be permissible for my servant to join in our conversation? He is well read and can debate on matters concerning Plutarch and Cicero.”
Montaigne’s guest coughed uncomfortably, “I think not. Best he doesn’t given the er circumstances.”
“Pity. I was hoping of the good fellow joining in. He’s very challenging.”
“I’m probably being silly and a little overcautious. Just treat it as a fellow fellow’s ridiculous superstition.”
“I shall honour your wish. Now how shall we begin this discussion?”
“Tell me sir,” asked The Grim Reaper, “What say you on the singing ability of Monsieur Mark E Smith?”
“I beg your pardon; I’m not at liberty to understand.”
“Oh I’m sorry; sometimes I forget when I am.”
“So what brings you here, Monsieur…er.”
“Oh…erm…call me Plutarch.”
“Plutarch?!”
“Mmmm. Yes, that will do. Not very satisfactory but as your man says I’ve forgotten my name.”
Speaking of whom the fire was lit. “Oh good job Godard, well done, you have done a fine job.” Congratulated Montaigne. “You may now leave.” Godard picked himself off the wooden floor with great effort and walked out of the room using much of the same energy. Montaigne and The Grim Reaper continued their discussion.
“So Monsieur Plutarch, why have you come to see me this afternoon?”
“I seek the pleasure of your company.”
Montaigne exclaimed that he was undeservedly flattered because he considered himself not to be an interesting personage and with very little to say. The Grim Reaper replied that Montaigne was interesting and also added that he desired good conversation as he never had the pleasure of the pleasure of company in his line of work. This of course led Michel de Montaigne to enquire what his line of work was. The figure cloaked in black managed to skirt the issue.

When one is serving unicorn to a French monarch it must be an elaborate and aesthetically pleasing presentation. The bulk of the meat must be carried on a strong golden platter of some considerable width and length. The creature’s head, legs and tail whilst severed from the rest of the body-which in turn is the only area to be flayed –are kept for display purposes when the kitchen servants bring the meat on to a round of French applause. The meat of a unicorn is the richest flavour in existence and therefore only suitable for a nobleman. In the abattoir that specialised in the slaughtering of exotic fauna the bloodstained young apprentice was given the job of severing the dead unicorn’s legs. This was his first time at that particular job so he performed his task rather carefully. Later a cart would arrive to take the unicorn to the kitchens of the palace. There it would be left to slightly age in an immense amount of salt overnight before being carved and cooked for the following evening’s entertainment.

“And do you have any children Monsieur Plutarch?”
“Just the one, a daughter.” Said Death, “I’m a little concerned about her, she breathes a little funny and always moans a lot.”
“I hope you do not mind Monsieur Plutarch in me asking but may I see your face?”
“I’m afraid you cannot. It’s for religious reasons.”
“You’re Catholic yourself?”
“Oh goodness sake, no. I’m an atheist. You can’t take things seriously.”
Taking a sip of his drink Montaigne confessed to the reaper, “I too have my own little idiosyncrasies. I so love to sleep but because I’m asleep, if you understand, I’m not awake to enjoy it.” Death pretended that the story was new to him by respectfully listening. “So I have ordered my servant Godard to wake me up in the middle of my sleep so I can feel tired and fall back asleep again. You could get that daughter of yours to do it for you if she’s not too breathless.”
What Godard was doing was sleeping in the kitchen. Exhausted from picking up his feet he dreamt of having a harem of mermaids. He disapproved of harvesting them for food but he was a servant so there was nothing that he could do. His sleep was broken by yet another knock on Michel de Montaigne’s front door.

Outside the abattoir that specialised in slaughtering the exotic the cart especially built for taking the unicorn’s meat to the kitchens of the palace had arrived. Already an argument was taking place between the driver of the cart and the monsieur who was in charge of the running of the abattoir. The cart driver hadn’t any longer to wait but the work in the abattoir hadn’t finished. Flaying of the rump needed to be done, the anus needed cleaning before being sewed up and the blood needed to be drained out into barrels for later use. The argument went on for some time with both parties talking to but not listening to each other. The workers inside could hear the commotion outside as not even the cries from the gryphons could drown them out. They exchanged glances and carried on with their jobs in hand.

Godard arrived at the front door of Michel de Montaigne’s home. Again he took a couple of minutes in opening the heavy door. Stood outside was a dwarfish gentleman holding a scroll in his left hand. This was a messenger to announce that Montaigne was required to dine the following night at a banqueting party in the palace. Godard nodded and went off to inform his master. By the time he eventually arrived in the room there was no sign of his master or his scythe carrying guest. Godard sighed as he acknowledged that he would have to meander through the whole house. It was clear that Montaigne, as was his wont, was keen to show his dark clothed guest around his home. Outside the abattoir the meat and extraneous parts of the unicorn were loaded onto the cart. The driver drove off the cart ironically enough being pulled by two aged, weak unicorns. The only creatures that were not slaughtered were flying Pegasus type horses but that was because they didn’t exist.

Montaigne himself had taken it upon himself to walk The Grim Reaper around his garden. “It’s very nice.” Said the angel of death.
“So who is this Monsieur Mark E Smith you speak of? Is he a troubadour?”
Death beated about the question’s bush by making a “mmm” sound and waving his covered skull side to side. To the great French essayist Michel de Montaigne this was a very satisfactory answer. He then went on to show the Grim Reaper his fruit trees, which were far from satisfactory. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this. I try my best but all my efforts seem to turn to failure. So I just resort back to my writing and that’s of no use to anybody really.”
“Master! Master!”
“Oh, greetings to you Monsieur Godard. It is that time already?”
“I have been given a message…” There is no need to relay the message again dear reader as you know what it is and this story is not intended to be as tedious as a book from The Old Testament. Montaigne replied in the affirmative and to save time his servant Godard walked round the house to inform the dwarf messenger who by that time had already grown in height. Back in the garden talk had changed to the subject of tomorrow. “Tell you what, why don’t you accompany me as my guest to the palace tomorrow?”
“I’m afraid I’m not very hungry at the moment.” Declined Death.
“Oh, really? Well it’s…er…only tomorrow.” Montaigne bumbled.
“Well it’s just that I have a few things to do tomorrow and er…”
“Sorry to hear that. It’s just you’ll be missing something wonderful. Mermaid meat is a unique flavour and when served with boiled satyr’s testicles is a divine sensation to enrich a French nobleman’s pallet. By your demeanour I can sense you are truly a nobleman.” This was close enough and The Grim Reaper nearly did a double take. Montaigne continued to describe the events of the evening which culminated with the bringing on of the unicorn. Death replied that he still did not feel any hungry. Montaigne accepted his decline with a sad shrug of his shoulders. “Oh well, c’est la vie, as they say in England.” Death did ask the essayist one small flavour, to have a bed for the night. Montaigne was most pleased and offered him his late wife’s old bed. “Thank you. You are truly a good French person.” Death declared.

A rose fingered dawn broke over the barely protected home of Michel de Montaigne. The previous night Godard failed in his duty to wake up his master halfway in his sleep so as to fall asleep again. This infuriated the man who wrote ‘A Tribute To Raymond Sebond’. He immediately got up, put on his dressing gown (if such a thing existed back then) and marched towards Godard’s quarters. Montaigne marched past the angel of death’s sleeping quarters from which no sound had emitted for the reaper himself was unable to snore. Montaigne arrived at the door of Godard’s quarters in one tenth of the time it took for Godard to reach his. Montaigne clenched his fist and thumped the door three times forcibly. “Godard! Godard! What is the meaning of this?” He bellowed, pre-empting Samuel Johnson’s mannerisms by many a century. He knocked again, this time twice. Now he was a little perplexed. He tried again with a whisper, “Godard?” An incoherent murmur came from the room. Montaigne had a look of concern upon his face. “Are you alright?” The essayist turned the handle and opened the door to the windowless room which had a deafening creak.

In his servant’s bed lay Godard, sweating and feverish. Montaigne, himself, was devastated. He apologised for his demeanour immediately, Montaigne wept. “My dear Godard. What is this suffering that ails you?” He motioned towards his servant and leant his whole body forward to place a kiss on his forehead.
“I would not do that if I were you.”
Montaigne was startled and turned round to see the source of the voice. “It would be unwise at this moment in time,” Said The Grim Reaper, “he knows you love him and that is enough.”
“I shall send for a priest, for his last rites.”
“Do what you wish but it will be unnecessary.” Said Death, atheist to the last.
“You wouldn’t think so from this poor man’s point of view.”
Godard attempted to say something of great importance but all that arose from his throat was very weak breath. Death continued. “Send for a priest if thou wilt but be aware that it makes my position more than a little difficult.”
“You are trained in medical matters?” Asked Montaigne.
“Send for the priest, then.” Gave in The Grim Reaper. Later after much debilitating The Grim Reaper managed to persuade the essayist to go to the palace that evening. It would be an insult to the monarchy if he didn’t go. It was a dark and stormy night when Montaigne was collected by coach and horses to go to the palace. Godard would be left in care of The Grim Reaper and the local priest.

As the priest knelt beside Godard the servant found it difficult to speak and painful to breathe. The Grim Reaper had to grit his teeth when dealing with the turbulent priest. “I think we should pray for the poor wretch.”
“You can if you like. Won’t be much effective.”
“You wish to blaspheme in a dying man’s presence?”
“If I’d wish to blaspheme it’d be a useless wish. It’ll have no effect whatsoever.”
“You sir will pray with me to help this sinful wretch attain salvation before the sands of time run out for him.”
“You are most honourable with your metaphors sir. Ulp!” The priest pulled down the angel of death for prayers. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Fifty strong were at the banquet. Jesters, jugglers and troubadours were all there. Servants were re-fuelling the gargantuan fireplace at breakneck speed. The noblemen and women began their banquet by gorging on dry roasted cherub genitalia. Cider was supped aplenty to add some moisture to the dry crunchy texture. As soon as the tropical fruit was eaten the mermaids hanging from a long horizontal pole and the gryphons positioned as if sitting upright in copper dishes were brought in to the sound of rhythmic clapping and music. The mermaids’ pole would be placed on two high supported crutches and each guest would point out which cut they want selected and how much of it they would like. Inevitably most diners would select from the waist of the mermaid where the difference in meats were blended. In all seriousness that was the most repulsive tasting part of the mermaid. To eat mermaid waist was a way of expressing your social status. Mermaids would be harvested and killed at the age of fourteen. Some were allowed to age for breeding with a few mermen studs and on special occasions such as royal weddings or Christmas feasts even younger mermaids would be boiled alive until their tails turned to a bright orange. Their mouths would be sewn up to prevent the sound of screaming. The gryphons themselves would be roasted to a crisp yellow with rusty brown edging. Their texture and flavour is incomparable. The only thing one can say about gryphon meat is that it shares the rich quality of cherub and satyr meat. Centaur meat (imported from England) became illegal in France due to rearing by inbreeding but above all to infection. The unicorn itself was infected. Somehow the arrow that had shot straight through the creature’s mouth and out of the top of its head contained something. Maybe through overuse, perhaps the farmer had neglected to clean it. Nonetheless when the top of the unicorn’s head was sewn up so as to be aesthetically pleasing the infection began to take hold and now the unicorn was poisonous. The French monarch Henri de Navarre, unaware of this, dined on his privilege mermaid embryos.

At Godard’s deathbed both the priest and The Grim Reaper were still bickering. “No, I insist in staying with this miserable wretch. He needs a man of God with him before he passes over.”
“Look, your holiness. Just leave him with me. I shall take good care of him.”
“Leave you with him? An ungodly sort? May the saints preserve me if I ever do.”
Death shrugged his shoulders.
“I hope you don’t mind. I’m going to retire to another room.”
“Yes I think you should. This poor servant has clearly suffered enough without your atheistic prittle prattle infecting his mind.”
The priest was left on his own with the dying and by now increasingly pained Godard.

The Grim Reaper sat on the chair by the fireplace where he conversed with Montaigne earlier. He waited deep in thought picking out the dirt from in between his finger bones with his scythe. He took a look at his hourglass. The sands of time appeared to be somehow suspended. From within his cloak he removed his mobile phone. This was the last one ever to have been made in the history of human endeavour and therefore better than the one you are currently using at the moment and infinitely superior to the one you will be replacing it with. “Hello, darling. It’s Daddy here. Daddy. Yes. Dad. Which one? Don’t try my patience you’ve only got one Dad. What’s up? I’m in a bit of a tricky situation.” And then The Grim Reaper told his daughter over the final variation of the mobile phone what had occurred

It was now time to bring on the unicorn. All marvelled at the splendid sight. Brought along upon a golden platter top and tailed with the creature’s painfully expressed head and silken tail. The unicorn’s legs themselves were placed upright around the four corners of the beast’s torso. The whole thing was garnished with edible flowers and the bringing on was accompanied by appropriate music played by the troubadours. When the platter was placed upon a separate intricately carved table and the longest sharpest knife was used to carve the meat. The kitchen staff would be rewarded for their efforts by being given the offal which would last them three days.

Death continued his cellular conversation with his daughter. “What do you think of the singing ability of Mark E Smith? Oh, right, I didn’t know. Hmmm? Oh, he’s still there. He’s meant to die tonight but I don’t know, might be the following morning. Oh for God’s sake! Look, I wonder if you could do me a little favour. Yes, again.” What caused The Grim Reaper to take the father of Christ Jesus’ name in vain was his immediate awareness of what had happened at the palace. All the guests had eaten poisoned unicorn meat and were in the process of dying. Michel de Montaigne included. The Reaper was unable to be in two places at the same time and was already contending with a priest he found insufferable. His daughter whilst not versed in the matters of mortality would have to go to the palace and appropriately deal with those who ate the poisonous unicorn. This would be more than a mite difficult for his daughter to cope with as her speciality was in something else.

The Reaper bade his daughter goodbye and lifted himself off the chair to march down towards Godard’s quarters. Bursting into the room he shouted at the priest, “Let me deal with this!” An appalled priest was then forcibly removed by The Grim Reaper. “I’ll have you excommunicated for this you emaciated impudent!” Death slammed the door in the ordained one’s face.

Death’s daughter, a specialist in the wide spectrum of carnality, arrived at the place where the poisonous unicorn was dined upon. Everybody there, save for the servants and troubadours who in a fit of panic ran out of the palace, felt an unbearable sickness. Bile was cascading out of Michel de Montaigne’s mouth with its contents getting embedded in his beard. Henri de Navarre himself was crawling on all fours leaving an l’escargot type trail of regal diarrhoea. An angel who dealt with arousals and orgasms would be having her work cut out regarding the imminent deaths of these noblemen.

“Let me in you blasphemous heathen!” By now the priest was thumping hard against the wooden door. “You will surely condemn such a poor wretch to the eternal flames by your idiotic bovine excrement, let me in!” And then the door unlocked. The priest began the process of calming down by simply but sarcastically saying, “Thank you.” He opened the creaking door. Alone in the room, save for an entering priest who was expressing astonishment, was the late Godard. Faithful servant to the magnificent French essayist Michel de Montaigne. Montaigne himself, along with the rest of the dinner guests, died happy. Very happy indeed.

© 2009 Clinton Morgan