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Eli Fayrangode

What happens in heaven and earth is of little consequence to those who care little for life or the happiness that could be afforded by the world around them. However, those who have made best of their liberties and made good use of both good and bad memories to form strong character, will, with their last breath, defend the world that made their being possible. That is what Eli Fayrangode said once and would have said if he were today. But before he had such wise quotes, he was a child just as you are now, young and adventurous, still finding his way through the world.

Eli was born in England in the year 1348, the year the Black Death came to Europe, during the Hundred Years War between France and England. Both Eli’s mother and father fell ill to the plague. When his father fell ill, his mother sent for Eli’s uncle to take the child away from London to the remote countryside, so that he may be spared from the deadly outbreak. She had to take care of her husband but could not risk for her only child yield the infection. “Take him away, Clement,” said she. “Oh my sweet darling child how innocent you are in all this.” She wept as she prayed for Eli’s journey to be swift and safe. The Black Death was especially deadly to children. Little Eli wept, tugged at the hem of his mother’s dress, wanting to be lifted into her embrace, but his mother did not dare to touch him. Eli’s uncle, Clement Fayrangode, tried his best to sooth the child while himself committing his goodbyes to his sister in law and his brother. Tears welled in his eyes as they did in the child, painful shudders as he nodded and closed the door behind him.

It was a great deal too difficult for many to fight the deadly infection. The same plague that orphaned dear Eli Fayrangode orphaned others. In most cases, parents were left childless, and in the worst ones there was no one left in a family. But this is not where our story ends. It is where it begins.

– – –

Across the ghastly cities, the unkempt farms, deserted villages, and emerald green plains, was a house built between the nook of two large rocks with walls lined with sturdy baked bricks. This was Clement Fayrangode’s home, disguised from thieves and the ill-mannered members of gentry of that period. Clement Fayrangode, Eli’s uncle, was a yeoman, one who owned and worked his own land independent from a lord. The nobility owned most of the fertile land which is worked by tenant farmers or serfs. In many cases the land on which he worked and the farmer were inseparable. It was not easy to be a yeoman, a lone farmer. The constant raining could cause the crops to rot. It is difficult to trudge through the mud to till and plant seeds. Meat and fish had to be salted and rationed wisely during the lean months when food was hard to come by. Anyone would say this is no place for a young child to be raised but, in fact, it was a blessing.

“Eli, not too fast boy!” Uncle yelled from across the field. “You must furrow deeply!” He motioned his palms downwards indicating what he meant. “Move too fast and the plough will only skim off the surface. The seeds need to be deep in the ground otherwise the animals will get them before they have time to grow.”

Eli nodded. He looked back on how much of the field he had ploughed and sighed. “I will have to start from the beginning then.” He said quietly to himself.

But it had to be done. If he had weighed but a little more he would not have to constantly push down on the plough to deepen its reach. Still he would not exchange the tiresome work for the pride of having his own land to be a serf.

“Independence is worth the price we pay, lad.” His uncle would say.

Peasant farmers who belonged to a village and served a lord had a small strip to work with, which did not produce much crop, especially after the dues they must pay to the lord are deducted. A yeoman had more land, but in many cases he had to work it himself and protect it himself from marauders without the help of fellow farmers or a lord. When harvest came, it was time to store what they needed and sell the rest in town. Clement Fayrangode had amassed quite a sum over the years, enough that he was wealthier than some of the landed gentry. He was, however, a reserved and frugal man who believed wealth should be used more for protection than for posturing, and was quite successful in making the town’s people believing he was barely making ends meat with his crop. 

“Ehem.”

Eli turned to the sound of a man clearing his throat.

“A good day to you Lord Grimoult. What a pleasure it is to see you sir.” His uncle bowed. Eli quickly did the same.

“Hmm.” Grimoult cocked an eyebrow. “Well, good day.” He mumbled. “Did you not see me approaching Fayrangode?” He asked.

“No indeed not my lord. My nephew was having difficulty plowing the field I had to advise him as how to do it correctly.”

“Hmm.” Lord Grimoult was a small and stout man, a dowdy character with flamboyant clothes that made his overly plump body seem like it had more love handles then it really did. His accent had a strange nasal quality. Eli believed it was a combination of his voice coming out of his one sided smirk which constricted his right nostril and flared his left one. “Well be sure it doesn’t happen again. Being a nobleman warrants me great respect.” He ungracefully adjusted himself on his horse. “You are a proficient in managing your field, Fayrangode.” It was a firm declaration and not a question.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say so, sir.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t? Then there shouldn’t be any problem in you selling the land to me.”

“The truth is sir,” Uncle chuckled. “Is that I wouldn’t burden anyone with this land and I am unfortunately not witty enough to learn how to work a new piece of land. I think it was the Lord’s blessing that I was able to find a way for this land to agree with me enough so that I may plant on it.” Another chuckle.

Eli smiled. He thought it very bemusing that his uncle played dumb to be clever. Lord Grimoult had been eyeing his uncle’s land for as long as he could remember, not because his land was particularly fertile (it was hard word that brought in the fruitful tide of crops), but because noblemen were greedy and elitist. Many of them would not accept that a mere commoner could own his own land and make his wealth through wit instead of taxing farmers who had no choice but to be bound to the land of bluebloods.

A slight sneer came across Lord Grimoult’s face. “Some day you might change your mind Fayrangode, if not for your own peace of mind, perhaps for your nephew’s.”

“I just might, my Lord.” Eli’s Uncle nodded cheerfully in agreement.

Grimoult turned and began to trot away.

“I shall send our tributes come harvest time my Lord!” Uncle Clement called out.

“Yes you may! Make sure they’re the best of the pickings Fayrangode,” was Grimoult’s reply, “for I shall expect no less!”

To this, Eli sighed. “Oh, Uncle, the best of the pickings.” He shook his head worriedly as Lord Grimoult rode away.

“When did you ever need to worry about such things, Eli? Every turnip, every head of cabbage, every stalk of wheat we grow comes out as well as any. You and I see to that. It’s best to make noblemen feel they are noble for they would then behave tolerably enough. When they misbehave more than they should, they bring about their own undoing. It will not hurt our pride to make Lord Grimoult feel important, and he will be less of a threat for us if we do.”

“It hardly seems fair uncle…” He sighed again.

“What is not fair? The world is fair for as long as we are brave and honorable. When a man makes a bad decision and studies his mistake, well, he becomes wiser. When a man misuses his blessings, he stands to lose them. When a man works for blessings, he gains them. The world is as fair as we make it, boy. Do not let anyone tell you any differently, or you shall be doing yourself a disservice.” Though the words were stern his, uncle’s tone was amused. It was the same amused tone and outlook of his uncle that made Eli fancy himself as contented and rich as he could possibly be.