Cruise to Nowhere Tales -- General Prologue

CRUISE TO NOWHERE TALES A MODERN VERSION OF CHAUCER'S CANTERBURY TALES INTRODUCTION Geoffrey Chaucer (1342 - 1400) wrote his masterwork, The Canterbury Tales, from around 1392 to the end of his life, when he left it unfinished. It consists of a series of tales told by a group of pilgrims on their way to visit the shrine of Saint Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral. Cruise to Nowhere Tales is a rewrite of The Canterbury Tales for modern times. It consists of a series of tales told by a group of tourists on a cruise to nowhere while they wait for their friends and lovers to finish gambling on the deck below. Each prologue and tale is an adaptation of its counterpart in The Canterbury Tales, told in the same verse form and with similar characters and plot elements. This contrast in tales is meant to highlight the differences between Chaucer's world and ours. But the tales can also be enjoyed on their own. GENERAL PROLOGUE When sweet April, with its gentle showers Winter's desert turns to Spring's bright flowers; And Daylight Savings Time the early gloom Banishes, that restless souls might soon Emerge from their long labors into light, Enjoying the long segue into night; And Spring Break the youthful heart invites To travel south for undisclosed delights; Then do folks again seek out their muses, Making pilgrimage on tours and cruises. Some spend ten days on islands in the sun, While others tour three cities on the run; Still others like to gamble, win or lose, On land or on a luxury liner cruise That sails to nowhere two nights and a day For time out on the sea to rest and play. On such a cruise a friend and I set sail, She to gamble, I to hug the rail And search the emptiness for long-sought peace, As she in poker looked for her release, Both of us worn ragged from the fray That was the substance of each working day. After dinner and a little dancing, A stroll out on the deck, some light romancing, She went down to try her luck at cards, Leaving me to turn back to the stars, Wondering why neither of us said The words we acted out each night in bed. After a while, the chill drove me inside Into a bar, where others chanced to bide Their time until their partners finished playing, And so I listened to what they were saying. "By God!" the bartender said. "I swear TV Holds not a candle to a tale at sea Told with vigor, sailing with the wind Till it reach port, no sailor left behind!" "Here, here!" a soldier said, in uniform, With rows of bright bronze medals to adorn His chesty chest, and on his head there lay The honorific of a green beret. "These stories that you speak of, I have many That I could tell, could I be sure that any Of you my simple tales would like to hear." A bearded backwoods farmer at the rear Said, "Yes, as long as I can tell one, too, Though not, perhaps, as skillfully as you." "Damn the skill!" our host cried. "Just say what Happens next! The spirit trumps the plot, And vivid characters are vastly more Important than what tricks you have in store. For tales to bring us clarity and pleasure, We must have characters that we can treasure. But enough of this philosophy! I say That while we wait, we while the time away, Each to tell, with energy and grace, A tale, be it beautiful or base, Long or short, with farce or fancy full, Just as long as it is never dull." And heartily all in the bar agreed To tell a tale, as you shall shortly read. But before I tell the tales that were told, In imitation of a bard of old Let me first describe the company, At least as they that night appeared to me. There was a SOLDIER, a military man, Who, from the time that he first began To fight, loved battle and its savagery, And lusted for it when he could not be At war, as gamblers lust to be at risk, Life shrunk to win or lose, the heart a husk, Though he himself had little use for cards. His lover, though, a friend of many wars, Would gamble money when he could not life, Addicted as he was to fear and strife. This soldier fought the first war in Iraq And then the second, just now coming back; Fought in Somalia and Afghanistan, Sometimes straying into Pakistan. Regardless of whose blood he might be spilling, He was a master at the art of killing. He felt a kinship with the men of yore Who, like him, for their people went to war, Guarding the frontier or gaining ground So those who wished them harm could not surround Them and then slaughter them at will, For men do often wish their fellows ill. He had only contempt for those who sneered, And claimed to love those whom they should have feared, Like children safe from harm only because Their parents keep an eye on predators. They think their playpen is the world, and toys They hug and talk to are the real McCoys. He loved his country and democracy, Freedom, God, and Christianity; Proud to be a warrior, and true, A man who'd gladly give his life for you. There was a NUN, though in civilian dres