The Perpetual Cauldron

 

            Geoffrey had been traveling all day, having woken at sunrise to begin his journey to the largest cathedral within walking distance. Now, standing beneath a tree with too few branches and holding a rather smallish canvas over his head to keep out as much of the rain as possible, he was thrilled to see the torches at the city gate, clearly within walking distance, even if it meant becoming slightly more damp than he already was.

              Even though he was interminably tired, he moved at a slight jog a bit off the rutted pathway identifying and jumping over puddles as the diminishing light allowed. He reached the two glowing torches that flanked each side of the massive city gate to explain his purpose for travel to the four guards that rigorously questioned everyone approaching. Breathing a sigh of relief as he was allowed to pass, the ever-growing ache in his stomach finally demanded his attention so he began his search for a public house, a tavern, or an inn, almost willing to kill for a warm meal.

              He continued to avoid the ruts and the mud puddles, eventually taking shelter under the generous overhang of the shop of a blacksmith, to shake the excess rain from his person. The multiple towers of the massive cathedral cast an ominous contrast to the darkening sky, and he carefully peered at each storefront from his pleasantly dry position. It was the staggering of an older man emerging from a doorway about one hundred feet down that triggered his attention. "Perfect," he muttered, jogging from overhang to overhang until he scuttled through the dark opening that had just vomited out the obviously drunken former occupant.

              The sharp smell of too many people who had not bathed in far too long assaulted his nostrils, forcing him to breathe through his mouth as he approached the long wooden counter attended by a massive breasted middle aged woman who may have been pretty in her youth but clearly did not understand the impact of her loss of years. He ordered a bowl of stew, sliding a small silver coin across the counter to the woman, motioning toward the seat he would be taking.

              Waiting for no more than thirty seconds, the woman emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming bowl, far larger than he expected and traded him the coin for the hot meal. He deliberately seated himself with a direct view of the kitchen, occupied by a very old man repeatedly chopping vegetables and meat, adding to the massive cauldron, as ladles of stew were removed, keeping the stew continually full, a never-ending process that guaranteed a consistency to the clearly famous and well-liked meal.

              Geoffrey ate in silence, watching the old man work and the middle-aged woman as well, distributing bowls of stew, and thoroughly enjoying the first hot food he had tasted since dinner the previous evening. He slowly gazed around the room to realize that nearly ever person in the pub seemed to be enjoying their hot food as much as he, and an interesting parallel occurred to him as he ate and warmed up. "I wonder how long that cauldron of stew has been going," he thought, thinking back to stores his mother had told him as a child of perpetual stew, as she called it. Judging by the age of the pub, he guessed the bubbling, redolent meal could be centuries old.

              The hot meal agreeing with him in the most pleasant way prompted him to lust after a hearty ale. Digging through his pockets, he found another small silver coin and approached the counter, to catch the woman's attention. "Could I get a half pint of a darker ale?" he asked, placing the coin on the counter. The woman smiled a smile that probably would have meant something when she was in her earlier years but only came across as lecherous to a young man like himself. She waddled to the end of the bar, filled a mug, and returned, again trading the mug for the coin, offering up another smile. He returned the smile simply as a gesture of courtesy, wanting to keep himself on the best of terms with the barmaid.

              He returned to his seat and slowly sipped the room temperature ale, with far too much head and a slight bitter aftertaste, giving his body the opportunity to handle the alcohol without getting buzzed too quickly. The barmaid became suddenly busy, skillfully managing the high volume of customers with a remarkable agility, repeatedly looking in his direction and offering up more smiles. "Well, looks like being friendly was probably a bad idea," he thought.

              Swallowing the last of his drink, he approached the counter a third time to return his mug and asked for the availability of any room. "No, sorry," she said, "but.... I do have room in my bed if you cannot find anything else," reaching over and stroking his hand. "You might check 'The Swollen Hog,' she said, "it's only a few doors down to the right and they almost always have rooms for rent. Come back and see me if they don't any rooms available."

              Geoffrey couldn't hurry out of the pub any quicker, praying for a room that he could afford. He caught sight of the inn, just a few doors down and he hurried through the unending rainfall to momentarily pause at the door, looking up at the three massive towers of the cathedral, directly behind him. He watched for a few moments as people came and left, entered and departed, which resurfaced the vision of the old man adding to and taking from the perpetual cauldron. "I guess that's what religion is like," he thought. "The recipe never changes but only the people. It's the same stew regardless of time."

              He shook the raindrops from his jacket before entering the inn and much to his joy, a room was available that he could afford, though he was told he would be sharing it with another gentleman, similar in age to himself. He paid for the room and followed the directions of the innkeeper, up the stairs and to the right, overlooking the main street. He walked into the room without knocking and was greeted by an overpowering stench of unwashed feet and flatulence. Holding in a gag, he hurried to the window, introduced himself and let in a glorious blast of cool, fresh air.

              He remained at the window, watching the constant stream of people coming and going, entering and leaving the cathedral, which struck him as odd, considering the late hour. "Like a great big stew," he muttered. As he looked across the room, his fellow traveler seemed to have no interest in small talk, which was perfectly in line with his preference as well. Despite the stench, he was overjoyed at not having to return to the pub and interact with the barmaid. He felt somewhat torn between the two options, a surly, smelly roommate, or an older woman, clearly fresh on him, but far past her prime and certainly carrying any number of diseases.

              He settled himself where he sat, not even slightly interested in reclining in a bed that had housed more people than he cared to count. Partially closing the window, he retained enough of a breeze to hold back the pungent stench, enough to prevent him from tasting the smell that was surely soaking into his skin and clothes. Within moments, he drifted to sleep and dreamt of a massive cauldron full of people of varying ages, coming and going, entering and leaving.