July 09, 2007

Dearest Eleanor

An excerpt from:

John Alden’s Faire and Homologous History of
The Plymouth Settlement
1620-1621

Original Letters Rendered into Modern English by
Dr. Theodore Nightshade
PhD, Elementary School Teacher

November 9, 1620

Dearest Eleanor,

I take quill in hand to let you, my delicate pigeon egg, know more of my time on this pribbling fen-sucked Ship known as the Mayflower. First, you must know that I miss you terribly. I am a man divided within myself, with my better part (the Soul of course) still with you in England. My worse part (the Foul Body) is here on this dankish, rank Ship. Second, you must know that said Foul Body is in disarray. This has come about from lack of exercise (both mental and physical), shoddy victuals, and from the fact that I am surrounded by nothing but Louts and Arseholes.

Last time I wrote, that bastard sailor Roger I told you about was walking around the Ship, boasting about how most of us would die a horribly painful death during the Voyage. He would prance up and down the deck shouting things like “Arrrr me hearties, I be lovin’ the smell ‘o Death in the mornin'. It be smellin' like...Separatists.” And “Shiver me timbers, be that Death I seen looking over ye belt-buckled hat? It tis! Avast, run for ye lives!”

Now that I think about it, Eleanor, I suspect Roger may have been a pirate.

He also spat on my shoes (not once, but twice!) and tried to sell me a Treasure Map, which looked like this:

"It's a circle," I said.

"Precisely," he replied.

"Well, where does the Journey begin?"

"X marks the spot."

"I'm with you, I'm with you. So where does it end? Where's the Treasure?"

"X marks the spot."

"What? You begin and end at the same spot? What exactly is this Treasure?"

"The greatest Treasure known to man." He came up close to me and whispered in my ear, "Self-awareness."

"Right. Listen very carefully to me, Roger. I want you to take your map, and your Satan-born self-awareness, and shove it up your pox-marked arse. I am a Christian, sir, and the only thing I need to be aware of is the Almighty Father. Now scram! Scram you botless fat-kidneyed foot-licker before I give you a mighty thrashing!"

He laughed at me that day, and continued to pester me about buying the Evil Map for many days after. But God was kind enough to make him fall ill last week, and yesterday he died a most painful death. Towards the end he was coughing up his own blood. If there’s one thing our God knows, and knows well, its Justice. Now if He would just find it in his heart to kill that beef-witted Edward Margesson chap, things would be wonderful. Every day from him it’s nothing but “Hark! Look at all that Cod in the sea!” “Now that is a lot of Cod, wouldn’t you say?” “Why I bet I could walk on all that Cod,” “Who can guess how much Cod is out there? Anyone? Anyone?” “Lo! Did you see how big that Cod was? By God's teeth, I swear it was bigger than a full-grown man in the nude.” “Oooooo that Cod smells soooooo good!” and “John, guess what I’m thinking about RIGHT NOW. Guess. I’ll bet you can’t. Bet you can’t guuuuuess.”

Cod. You’re thinking about Cod, you tottering bastard. And if you don’t stop it you’re going to be swimming with them.

I have even better news than the death of Roger. Yesterday we spotted land! I don’t have to tell you that there was much cheering, and I was patted on the back not once, not twice, but thrice! Then William Button, an apprentice to Dr. Fuller, decided to jump ship and make a swim for it. Dr. Fuller said the boy had something called “cabin fever." As William swam away he shouted back to us, “See you all on shore, dewberries.”

Eleanor, we were miles from shore. He died of course, the only non sailor to perish during the Voyage. But since we had a birth along the way, a sugared little bugger named Oceanus, we’re still even. Hopefully these odds will continue through the winter...except for Margesson who will hopefully have his loins eaten by a killer Cod by the time I finish this letter.

When we approached the shore, we got a good look at our new home. It’s the most knotty-pated and mangled Wilderness I ever set my eyes upon and I hate, hate, HATE it. I just know it’s full of wild Beasts. I’ll bet those little bastards are sharpening their pointy horns as I write, just dying to pinch me in the rump. Well, if that’s the case, then those Devils have another thing coming. And it’s called my fist in their fat faces.

Not to mention the Savage men who are most certainly hiding in the bushes, waiting to pop out and dance around me in circles. With their hooting and spinning about. Now Eleanor, you know me, I simply love to dance. But not now. Not after all these months at sea. Give me a few days to wash up and settle in, maybe eat some of this corn I keep hearing about, and I’ll be happy to dance around in circles with those beastly men until the sun comes up. I just hope they understand. I also hope that they don’t have wings and tails, which is what Samuel Fuller said. But I have my doubts about his sources for this information. His young servant Thomas told him. And Thomas spends most of his days rotating round and round in a corner of the Ship, whilst tracing a circle around himself with his own urine. All the while he sings that horrible song about the jolly young man who bed's the daughter of an old woman who lives under the hill. You know, the one that goes:

What is this, all hard and warm?
Fa la la, la la la la la la
'Tis bald my nag, he'll do y' no harm
Fa la lo, fa la lo, fa la la la la la lo
And what is this? 'Tis a little well
Fa la la, la la la la la la
From which my nag may drink his fill
Fa la lo, fa la lo, fa la la la la la lo
And what perchance if your nag falls in?
Fa la la, la la la la la la
Grab hold of the grass that grows by the rim
Fa la lo, fa la lo, fa la la la la la lo

Quite a paunchy song if you ask me. The fact that Thomas insists on drinking bucketfuls of sea water all day may have something to do with his strange behavior.

As it stands, we have a wild Maze in front of us and the ocean Abyss behind. Even if I squint really, really hard, to the point where I look like a Chinaman, I cannot see brave England anymore. If that doesn't tell you we're far from home I don't know what will.

Since so many of the other men are sick (what a bunch of dewberries!) Captain Standish asked me to join the expedition party. I get to sail ashore in a little boat and carry around a big sword, musket, and real armor! Let’s see those Beasts and Savages try to have their way with me now.

Thank the Lord I’ll be getting off this Ship for a bit. The Mayflower has started to smell like a dead rat sitting in a bucket of piss, excrement, and eggs. I imagine they’ll have to burn the Ship once it returns to England. Even washing the decks with beer hasn’t helped.

Sundry other things of importance I could put you in mind of, but I can no longer keep my eyes open. It is time for me to get some rest for the expedition. I’m going to pick out a nice corner of the Ship, piss a circle around myself in the bold style of Thomas, and bed down for the night. Lo how I hate this ship.

May I live to see your celestial face again.

Your brave cuckoo-bud,
John Alden

P.S. I was only half-joking about peeing around myself.

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