He visited each castle twice. First as a minstrel. Then again, as a medicine seller.
They loved the minstrel. The children cheered when they saw him enter through the iron gate. The old folks shouted the names of songs from their windows as he passed, challenging the minstrel’s memory, always delighted when the notes came so quickly from his lyre and the words came so easily from his tongue.
They loved the minstrel, but they didn’t value him. The people would pat him on the back and sadly explain how hard the year had been. The lord of the castle would give him bread and wine and sadly explain how hard the year had been.
Surely he understood?
And of course he did. It’s why he left and why he came back.
They did not love the medicine seller. They called him a leech and an ill omen. Life, they would say, should not have a price. Salvation, they would say, should not be so expensive.
The medicine seller would nod and agree. It was a shame that his medicine cost so much. But the price was the price. If you couldn’t pay it, someone else could.
They did pay it, of course. Because they were struggling to breathe. Because they saw stars and they vomited and their hair fell out and the babies died.
The medicine seller sold good medicine. And when the minstrel came back, the children were cheering again and those that remained were hardy and hale. There was peace and prosperity.
They loved the minstrel and they loved his songs. But still there was nothing they could give him. Nothing they could share.
It had been a hard year, after all.
But the minstrel never complained. He never made them feel bad for the meat they hid when he came to town, or the way they tied their coin purses extra tight to prevent their silvers from clinking in his presence.
He always smiled. He always understood. And he always promised to come back.
Image credit: insspirito
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