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Hurdy Gurdy

Page 16

by Christopher Wilson


  ‘Yes?’ I say. ‘I did not know.’

  ‘And honesty is no solution.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘For other men will pay her compliments, when you forget to, and try to prey on her. As soon as they see you riding your horse for market, they will go knock on your door, with a thought to mounting her in your place.’

  I consider all this in silence, trying to sift the sensical apart from the sly.

  ‘So Faith is a fine choice. She is young, lively, healthy and strong-minded. She has broad hips for birthing children, strong arms for lifting, and a confident voice that carries far. She is a fine girl. She isn’t marred by beauty. Yet she isn’t ugly either. But you mustn’t mind the shouting.’

  ‘Shouting?’ I ask.

  ‘Nor the throwing, neither.’

  ‘The throwing?’ I say.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he reassures. ‘She means little by it … But sometimes she throws things …’

  ‘What things?’

  He shrugs. He gestures vaguely, wafting the airs with his empty hands. ‘Things close by. That come to hand. Things that travel well. Through the air.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It is a habit. She breaks things … Or sets them alight. Or pours water on them. Rips them with a knife. Or crushes them with a hammer. Pulls them apart with her hands. Or calls them foul names.’

  ‘Why so?’ I enquire.

  ‘It is her great sincerity. She has too big a heart. She’s impetuous. She feels too strongly. There’s no harm in her. Only too much feeling.’

  ‘Those are great virtues,’ I encourage him, ‘big-heartedness and sincerity.’

  ‘So, when she is happy, she is very happy. And when she is sad, she is very sad. And when she is angry, I leave the house.’

  ‘I understand,’ I say.

  ‘So any man she loved would be very blessed, under the welter of her love.’

  ‘I see,’ I agree.

  ‘But any man who crossed her would be very sorry.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘So, a man who treated her well would have nothing to fear.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So?’ He leans forward and taps my shoulder. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About wedding my daughter Faith.’

  ‘Oh.’ I grow evasive. ‘I would certainly have to meet her first.’

  ‘Good.’ He taps my shoulder again. ‘You may call me Father, if you wish.’

  He was as good as his promise. So the next day he introduced me to the full of it. He showed me the barn, behind the inn, where I might treat the sick, the square of garden between the barn and the brew-house where I could grow my herbs, the nearby stream for clean running water, and Faith the daughter with the child-bearing hips, whose throwings and shoutings I should learn not to mind.

  The tenor of his remarks was that this was a take-it-or-leave-it, all-or-nothing offer – requiring my acceptance of each and every condition, but to be sweetened by a dowry of seventeen shillings and three pence, a bedstead, two nanny goats, and a set of copper pans for cooking.

  Of course, as a careful man, I took care to consider each clause, and turn over every item in my mind.

  i. Yew Wood as a place to settle.

  There were only two places on this Earth I could claim as home – the monastery at Whye, and here at Yew Wood. I was born here. I had a history. I was known of. I had a place in people’s memory.

  My grandfather’s brother lived here, and two of his sons. I had family of sorts. I was welcome.

  ii. The outbuilding, to be my infirmary.

  The barn was more than satisfactory, being twenty paces by fifteen, with a sound roof and a dry stone floor, and a double door with a south-westerly aspect.

  There was ample space for a table for operations, beds for the sick, racks for medicines, with the scope to partition an area off for times and occasions requiring some privacy, such as amputations, sleeping, or taking refreshments.

  iii. The garden, to be my herbarium.

  This was a plot directly behind the outhouse, currently lushly grassed. The soil was a fine, rich loam, damp but well drained. Within this was the spare ground I should need to dig out trenches to fill with other soils, which I discovered I could source nearby. For I should need a wet clay soil for the barberry, burdock, borage, comfrey and foxglove. I should need a drier, sandier soil for the rosemary, sage, basil, chervil, mint, oregano, parsley and thyme.

  iv. The stream to supply clean water.

  This water fell through a stony course from an underground river which broke to the surface twenty paces above. It was cool, clean-tasting, clear to the eye, and not open to farm animals to foul it.

  v. Faith to be my helpmeet.

  Faith proved the most difficult item to assess. I recognised the landlord’s true account of her, with respect to both her character and comeliness. Yet I was cautioned by how others spoke of her. For she was known in the village as Fey Fay, and said by some to be moon-struck, crazy as a coot, and the village idiot.

  But her father reminded me that marriage was a long and difficult journey, and an agreement to fight the world as a couple, back to back, to share property and raise children.

  He warned me that beauty was only face-deep. It faded quickly, and passion soon fled. So that the best choice in a wife would be for a strong-armed, determined, big-boned fighter, to mind your back.

  XXIV. The Secrets of Woman and Her Dark Interior

  I am becoming well known in all directions, in the villages hereabouts, for my skills as a surgeon and herbalist. I treat all who need my help – rich and poor, free and serf, young and old, man and woman, bull and cow, cock and hen, duck and drake, boar and sow, dog and bitch, stallion and mare, billy-goat and nanny.

  And yet I always have my specialism, my favourite patients. For the Lord has directed my gaze to Adam’s spare rib. So I have made myself expert in the maladies of the female of the humankind. And will always attend to her needs ahead of man or livestock.

  Woman has always stood apart and unique as a mysterious organism, since the Day of Her Late Creation, and her body is a strange, concealed land, as yet only part revealed to the eyes of man and the scrutiny of science.

  Whereas the male wears his sex candidly, openly on the outside, woman is devised as a puzzle, wrapped up in a mystery, concealing her sex within, in a labyrinth of tunnels. So while the testicles of the man hang outside in a handy purse, for all to see, alongside his utensil, the testicles of the woman are untouchable, carried deep inside, and are even known by a different name.

  Truly, there is so much that man and woman share in their design, yet there’s so much that divides them too. Such that women develop maladies and distempers entirely their own. Prominent amongst these are –

  i. Starvation of semen, leading to chastity-fever.

  ii. Suffocation of the womb.

  iii. Wandering uterus.

  iv. Failure to conceive a son.

  So this has become my calling as surgeon and apothecary. To bring reason, medicine and the light of observation to bear, upon the bodies of women. Thus I have become an explorer of the female realm, a doctor of the distaff.

  To this end, I am writing a text for the instruction of all practitioners of medicine, to promote my growing reputation, being candidly titled – The Secrets of Woman: Being the True Revelation of the Enigmas of Her Dark Interior.

  And, as a married man, I have the privilege to take the good counsel of my wife, Faith, to inform my understanding, straight from the horse’s mouth, by filling some manshaped holes in my knowledge. Such as – How many days in each moon do you bleed? Is it true, as Zeno observes, that menstruation attracts bears? Why do women squat to pass water, instead of standing like a man? And what, pray, is woman’s reason for so favouring that pastime known as kissing?

  But it is Doctor Galen who gives us best entry to women. For the opening to unlocking her mysteries lies in the four elements
.

  Elementally, man is hot and dry.

  Whereas woman is wet and cool.

  And from this fundamental difference, much else quickly follows.

  The heat of the male converts some of his bloods to semen.

  Yet woman, possessed of less heat, cannot effect this same conversion. Her blood forms itself to a lesser, weaker seed, and that left over leaks out in her menses. Or, if she is pregnant, if feeds the foetus in the womb, or is converted into milk if the child be born.

  Woman has been designed by God to be cooler than man. This is not her fault nor any weakness, but just the Divine instruction the Lord gave to her body, the brief house of her soul.

  While man is obedient to the fire of the sun, woman observes the cool, monthly cycle of the moon.

  Woman is incomplete. She stands in regular need of the seed of man. She requires it for its liquidity, to wet her humours within.

  If it is not forthcoming, she must demand it of her husband, that he give her his seed, and pleasure her well and often, with spasms of love, lest her equanimity be lost in a cold, dry chastity.

  She may suffer the condition known as suffocation of the womb. Then, lacking the male moisture of semen, the uterus may wander about the body in search of another wetness elsewhere, so causing mischief to that woman’s health by displacing her organs within. If this happens, the womb may still be lulled back to its proper position, if coaxed by sweet perfumes, placed outside the body, close to the vulva, so that the enticing scent may carry inwards and upwards. For the very same scents as pleasure a woman’s nose likewise gratify her vagina.

  To conceive, a woman must have regular monthly bleeds. So, if these menses are not forthcoming, they must be encouraged to return. The proper treatment is this –

  Take a hot bath each day and, as she bathes, the woman should drink ale spiced with speedwell and centaury. After bathing, she must be covered warm while the doctor rubs her privates to coax the flow of blood to these parts, before applying a poultice to her vulva of barley meal, wild celery and mugwort. This to be repeated as many days as necessary.

  But if, on the contrary, the menses are too heavy and vigorous, the reliable treatment is this –

  Throw upon the hearth the fresh, moist droppings of a female horse. Have the woman stand close and raise her hem so that the smoke fills her skirt, draws the sweat from her legs, and finds its way upwards, drifting where it will.

  When a woman lies with a man for intercourse, she releases her menses at the same time that the man releases his semen, so the male and the female seeds enter the womb together and are mixed, by the quiver and jerks of their gratified desires. Thus the woman conceives.

  But only if she first be pleasured.

  Praise be to God.

  Then the womb closes up like a purse, so nothing can fall out. And after, the woman no longer menstruates.

  When any woman says she wishes to conceive, I tell her this –

  Your womb is hotter and drier on the right side. It is wetter and cooler on the left. So if you desire to conceive a boy, you should after intercourse lie on your right side so the seeds of procreation fall to that side. Or – should you prefer a girl – you should lie on the left.

  Otherwise, let the husband collect the vagina and womb of a hare, dry them, powder them, and drink this sprinkled in wine. Then the woman will conceive a girl. But if she wants a boy, let her collect the testicles of the hare, desiccate and powder them. Then she will conceive a boy.

  If a man and woman wish to conceive but are unable, you can determine whose fault this is by having each piss upon a separate bowl of bran meal. Whichever bowl of meal rots first discloses the faulty partner.

  It is well known from the writings of Dame Trotula of Salerno that the embryo develops this way in the womb –

  i. First month – the male and female seeds join, mingling their blood.

  ii. Second month – the blood clots into a tiny body.

  iii. Third month – the nails and the hair develop.

  iv. Fourth month – the foetus discovers motion and thereby makes the mother sick.

  v. Fifth month – the foetus develops the likeness of the father, or else of the mother.

  vi. Sixth month – the baby grows a brain and nerves, so it may think and feel once born.

  vii. Seventh month – the baby swells, growing solid and stronger.

  viii. Eighth month – the infant is made whole and complete, blessed with all its parts.

  ix. Ninth month – the infant proceeds out of darkness into light.

  But if a woman desires not to conceive, I can help her also. Then I advise her this way –

  Carry against your naked flesh the womb of a goat which has never conceived. Then the sterility it imparts may pass from the flesh of the goat straight into you, absorbed through the skin.

  Or, in another fashion, but to the same effect, I will advise –

  Take a male weasel and let its testicles be cut away. But let the beast be released alive. Yet retain these testicles, and hold them to your bosom, having wrapped them tight in gooseskin. This way you will not conceive. For male potency has been cut off, and imprisoned in your power.

  If a woman has given birth but chooses not to suckle the baby herself, she may prefer to hire a wet-nurse. Then, I advise her thus –

  Whichever the sex of your own child, find a wet-nurse who has recently given birth to a boy. For the female body is wise in ways unknowing. It produces a milk for the boy that is richer and more nourishing than the milk for a girl. It is for this simple reason that boys grow bigger and stronger than girls.

  So, a boy wet-nursed on girl’s milk would likely grow up feeble and weakly.

  Women often report that child-birth is painful, and evidence this well, with their howls and screams, attendant on the occasion. But this pain, the holy men say, is not without reason, being the reparation God requires of woman, so reminding her of the apple in Eden.

  The Lord’s Creation is immaculate, perfect. So it is God’s Design, not any mistake, that every woman is required in every labour of birth to push a thing too large through an opening too small.

  After a male child is born, there must be care where the umbilical cord is cut, for this decides the eventual length of the boy’s organ.

  If a man or woman finds themselves, through advancing years, with declining vigour to bring to the marriage bed, I recommend this cure to restore their pleasure in copulation –

  Take five blind new-born puppies, by preference black and white, gut them, and cut off the feet, to allow their essence to flow out, then boil in water, and in this water have the patient rest for four hours after he has eaten, and whilst in the bath he should keep his head and chest completely covered with the fleece of a sheep, so he won’t catch a sudden chill.

  This is efficacious because a puppy contains the essence of growth, recovery and rebirth. For it is born lame but soon gets agile. It’s born helpless yet quickly grows vigorous. It’s born blind but then gains sight. And this recuperative essence, if not squandered on a dog, can be absorbed by the sickly soul, be they man or woman, of declining years.

  Of course, there is still much else to be learned about the anatomy, ailments and feelings of women. But these are some of my discoveries, so far.

  And I offer them up to you, in a spirit of generosity, as a gift of knowledge, the fruits of my research. For much of it isn’t widely known yet.

  XXV. Aristotle Misleads Me

  Marriage can prove an awkward sacrament. At the start, the union of man and woman may fail to delight. Both parties may have to seek its perfection through practice, exercise patience, and cling to their faith.

  You can find yourself an unhappy actor in this mummery of two players, sitting tongue-tied in the gloom, in silence long hours by the fireside, or lain in a bed, feigning sleep, in the resentful company of a stranger, of a contradictory sex, of uncertain temper, who seldom looks you in the eye, and maybe prefers to be somewhere else, and
with whom you share little, save a confined space, and stale air, without any common cause, so intimacy is a dangerous leap in the dark, and you doubt the Almighty would ever want you joined so, till death do you part.

  Yet there is always good in marriage too – not least in the acquisition of property, the dowry of livestock and household goods, and the new-found family you embrace and enjoin.

  Then there remains the physical act – the love in God’s garden – that the man and wife come to enjoy. He with his seed and dibber. And she with her secret pot.

  I have let it be known to my wife, Faith, that she may take her full and lengthy pleasures of my body just as often as she cares to. And draw off as much seed as she needs.

  My wife, Faith, in return, lets me know exactly how I should satisfy her, and directs me fully, each step of the way, in the varied dances of our desire, showing what goes where, at what pace we proceed, who is backwards, and who is forwards, topsy-turvy, on top, or bottom, and who should lead and who should follow, and who comes first, and who calls the tune, and who should pay the piper, and who can go fiddle.

  Forgive the candour of my forthright rhetoric.

  I do not say Faith is strict in the saddle. I rather say she is determined and ardent. But sometimes she rides me rough, then claws too deep and bites too hard. Or leads us off where nature never intended.

  Perhaps I have told too much already. Pray, wipe it from your mind. And think no more about it. I would not have any dark imaginings thrust into your unsullied mind.

  A surfeit of passion is surely less a fault than the lack of it. Only I have a thin skin and bleed easy.

  I cannot exaggerate our great joys, now we have a son, Faith and I. We have christened him Francis Fulco Franklin Fox, after the Saint of Assisi, my tutor Brother Fulco, and his mother’s father.

 

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