The Ingenious Gentleman

Alonso was a true believer. That was, Sancho mused, the ongoing issue. It was undeniable that the pomposity and blind bravery that belief inspired was entertaining, even rewarding for Sancho. The longer it went unchecked, however, the more dangerous life became.

There were two things Alonso believed in;

1. His nose was a divinely bestowed instrument, and as with all divine gifts this was to be used in the pursuit of noble and honorable goals.

2. This being the case, his nose could only lead him to things that were destined to belong to him. It was infallible.

Sancho brushed the back of his ear, considering his options. He had followed Alonso through much adversity. The scars that decorated him bore testament to the fact. Yet as his considerable body mass suggested, those tribulations had not been without reward.

Alonso, wiry and distracted as he was, never shrunk back from danger. Following his calling had more than once required him to stand firm in the face of fury and flashing teeth. Perhaps a certain amount of his unflappable courage came from an uncanny ability to slip away at the crucial moment, leaving Sancho to face the physical manifestation of the anger they had provoked.

Sancho slept in the stables with the horses, an unpleasantly fragrant, but warm and quiet place. That evening Alonso called to him from across the courtyard. He would, as always, expect immediate attendance.

Breathing in the crisp autumn air, Sancho slipped his way across the ancient cobblestones. He knew every divot and chip. He had paced these stones since he was a child. The mix of twilight and courtyard under his feet made him feel young and energetic.

Alonso was stood near the door in the way peculiar to him. His limbs hung from him like pins hang from a magnet. There was a disheveled languor about him, but even while motionless, his body seemed to hum and vibrate with restrained energy. The sheer improbability of his physical appearance was enough to draw people in to his orbit, equally amused and enthralled.

“Listen.” Alonso gestured for Sancho to stand still.

Alonso’s intensity suggested something important was afoot. Sancho heard nothing.

“What?” He shrugged.

“Can you hear it? Can you smell it? Can you, taste it?” The fire in Alonso’s eyes was flickering.

Sancho took a deep breath in through his nose. Nothing. He tried a series of short sharp breaths. He choked and coughed noisily.

“Just tell me what it is.” He spluttered.

Alonso drew himself up and peered down at his companion with pity, and a charitable affection (Sancho was so far below his own station).

“She calls, my thick and sagging friend. Fate. Fate is whispering through the silence of this grand old house, she calls me through every sense. My nose tingles. That you do not feel or hear her move, is no comment on you or your powers of perception. No. It is my blessing and my curse to be at the whim of an insatiable mistress. It is your blessing and, no doubt my dear one, your curse, to follow me and lend me your arm in our unceasing quest for virtue, for the beatification of all…”

“Shhh, listen!” Sancho exclaimed. He had not been listening to Alonso, tuning in mid-monologue, he found he could not bear to sit and listen for too long this time. Pretending to hear a noise almost always shut the fellow up, so worried was he that his gift of smell might weaken his other senses.

“You are mistaken Sancho, but you are alert. The house is silent, tonight is the night. The night we take what is ours. Salvation smells deep and rich, liked turned soil after rain.”

“Alonso my friend, you know that I cannot add anything but loyalty to your senses and their interpretation. Please, lead and I will follow.” Sancho recoiled against his own flattery, but he had recognized that look on the face of his acquaintance immediately. There were rewards in store, and he was greedy for them.

“You are right of course, we must make haste, we do not know how much time we have. Follow me.”

The house was grand and, supposedly, had once belonged to Alonso’s family. The current inhabitants had, supposedly, usurped the land and title. The stable had always been under the supervision of Sancho’s ancestors. Alonso’s family had considered it a great embarrassment to be driven out of the house. Some to the nearby village, and worse, some to work under their former servants in the stables.

The memory of a divine right to rule, however, had been resuscitated in an unusual way with the birth of the current and possibly final heir. Sancho had been bound to Alonso for many years, and had witnessed Alonso’s interest in the history of his family turn to an obsession with reclaiming what was his “by law and God.”

Legend had it, that in the grand kitchen there was unimpeachable evidence to support the claim to land and title, so greedily stolen generations ago. Sancho was inclined to believe that if evidence existed, the kitchen indeed would be the place to search. If any room contained something divine, miraculous, and important, that room would be the one.

They moved quickly down the long wide halls, careful to avoid any object that might be fragile or delicately balanced. They knew this route well. The worn, priceless rugs felt like long grass beneath their feet. Familiarity calmed their nerves, but mentally they were both on high alert. This was the kind of subterfuge that could mean, if caught, banishment or worse.

Reaching the large kitchen at the end of the hall they slowed down, stopping to check for signs of life. The evening was still outside, and the silence poured through the open windows, filling the hallways.

They had stopped, shoulder to shoulder in the doorway. So large was the room that a careful plan would be needed. Sancho turned expectantly to his leader. Alonso’s nose was twitching furiously, it looked to have a life of its own.

He gestured in the code they both understood, to begin at the huge central island in the kitchen. It was oak, scarred from heavy use, and as old as any part of the ancient house. With primal speed and grace, the two dashed across the kitchen and up the leg of the long kitchen island.

At the summit of their climb, the two mice sat back on hind legs and surveyed the room. Embers glowed in the fireplace. Crumbs littered every flat surface. Now, Sancho could smell it too, the scent of a divine reward.

As he concentrated on it, it rushed in to him like water from river bursting its banks. An intense, earthy aroma like salt and fresh bread. Rich like the milk they pilfered in the cow shed, mixed with black cherries at the end of the season. Something like roasted chestnuts and Christmas spices lit up his nose, he could almost hear the smell it was so dense and resonant.

Never had his senses been so overwhelmed. Could Alonso have been right all along? Was there something supernatural at work in this room?

Alonso was smiling, but distracted as always, scanning the room with great concentration. Sancho followed his gaze along the wall near the smouldering fireplace. They both froze. Despite the heat in the room they shivered.

“Did you bring me here to die Alonso?” Sancho whispered through gritted teeth.

Near the fire, stretched out like a trophy fur, apparently asleep, was a lean young cat. There had been many animals in the house over the years, but none had ever looked so wild. If that mottled feline woke while they were in the kitchen, Sancho knew the line of descent would end for both their families.

Alonso looked grim but, determined.

“Do not fear Sancho. You and I have faced larger teeth and sharper claws.”

“I may have.” Sancho hoped his insinuation didn’t miss the target, “Just don’t disappear on me again Alonso. Alonso?”

Sancho turned to find two things. Firstly, Alonso had disappeared. Secondly, the source of the smell had been behind him the entire time.

Rising like obelisk from a vast and dirty lake, was a mound of the deepest brown Sancho had ever seen. The lower half of the thing was pockmarked and cratered, it looked as if it would melt to the touch. Some of the holes that peppered it were bigger than his eyes. How it had the strength to support the top half was a mystery to the mouse.

He crept towards it in awe. The top was glossy and heavy looking. It shone in the waning light of the fire. He had been right. In this room, they had found a miracle. Warmth still radiated from it. The glossy darker part was solid at the top, but in places it was half melting, slowly rolling down the spongey sides.

Right in front of him, a tear drop of the semi-solid stuff had made its way right to the base. The ripples it had left behind on its journey were becoming solid ridges, but the drop itself looked like it might fall to the bench top.

Sancho reached out a paw to catch it. The drop looked black against the pink of his paw. The smell was overwhelming. He tasted it. He would think, later on, that at this moment he had temporarily left his body.

He squeaked involuntarily.

He returned to his body at great speed, his eyes snapped open and looked towards the fire place, but the cat was still sleeping quietly.

Maneuvering his hefty body up on to the low metal grill that held the cake above the bench, he was able to find a corner that was wide enough to hold him comfortably. With the ceremonious respect befitting something heaven sent, he began to gorge.

Very few thoughts made it through the haze of pure pleasure in Sancho’s brain. He recognized though, the sensation of biting in to a summer cloud, tasting a battle between bitter and sweet, the deep intensity when the still viscous icing mixed with an effervescent mouthful of the cake itself. And, oh joy of joys, a layer of the glossy sorrel icing, right at mouth level if he stood on hind legs.

He paused for breath, to savor the moment, to appreciate again the smell that surrounded him. There was a hint of fresh saw dust about it, a hint of smoke that had grown stronger, a hint of something animal.

Sancho turned to see whether the fire had found a second life and was confused to have his view of the room obstructed. It took him a few seconds to realize he was staring in to the grinning face of the animal he had believed to be sleeping. The goading smile of a predator, certain of success. It was slowly masticating. A pink, naked tail hung from the corner of its maw.

That, thought Sancho, was the first forgivable reason Alonso had ever given, for leaving him alone.

He briefly mourned his partner. He mourned the end of his feast. He ran. With reckless speed and agility that shocked the confident hunter, the short, wide, sagging mouse had cobblestones under his feet before the cat had reached the rug in the hallway.

“The end of an illustrious family,” Sancho would often say thereafter, imitating the grandiosity of his fallen friend, “came not through combat nor court, not through deception nor false witness. The divine gift of the last in his line had resulted not in vindication, nor salvation. It was something far simpler, far sweeter, perhaps more fitting for the heir and his ingenious gifts. It was death by chocolate. And for that, I am grateful.”