I was serving at the inn, as the births had become too few to keep me busy. A group of young nobles arrived one day, in a flutter of laughs and babble and airy gestures. Fleeing the plague in their town, they took our very best rooms. I don’t think any were married, but they shared beds like couples do, except they changed every night. The men were so handsome and elegant I was glad I won their attentions. I was not as beautiful as their companions, but my body was young and plump and willing. I had never tasted before the fine foods their ordered, the luscious wines and liquors they favored. Sitting in the garden, or around the fire if it rained, they took turns sharing stories full of fancy. When I could get away from my tasks, I stood nearby in a quiet corner, listening with all my wits. Their tales made me uneasy, as I could not reconcile them with the refined young people who unreeled them. They were kind to all of us, maids and stable hands and merchants alike. They had a coin ready to push in our hands, and compliments to throw freely at each other and to anyone around. Yet their tales were so strange. At first, they sounded like the parable a holy man might share with pilgrims on the road to a sacred site. But soon the meaning was tossed upside down. The prettiest and youngest lady’s story told of an evil man who lies and cheats and curses, but so craftily that pious people are fooled into thinking he’s a saint. When he dies a sinner, his remains are adored as relics.

In other tales, inquisitors were corrupt, kings lecherous, abbots and monks lure young women into their cells. Instead of telling how the world should be, the stories described its real wickedness as if it didn’t matter much. I wanted to hear more, to figure it out, but word came that the plague was on its way to our province.

The young merrymakers left, forgetting in the rush a trove of tidbits, ribbons and hairpins, and even two silver cups which we fought over. I missed the stories they shared as much as the glorious revelry. From then on, we went back to our daily grind, our pittance, and to hearing the exemplary lives of saints, followed by tales of ungrateful princesses.

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This is the 72nd woman of 100 mothers talking to their daughters, over 2500 years.

The 53rd woman, having climbed up socially, rejects her own mother. The 52nd woman‘s sister, a smart and lucky business woman, betters the fate of the daughter. The 51st woman leads the hard life of a hunchback. The 50th woman’s mind is as feeble as her back. The 49th mother explains why women should not fish. The 48th woman finds refuge in a fishing village. The 47th mother lulls her baby with an optimistic song. The 46th mother rebells against the wealthy. The 45th mother explains the swing of time, back and forth. The 44th mother resorts to the ultimate sacrifice. The 43rd woman‘s grandmother fights with the priest for a proper burial. The 42nd woman cringes at her mother’s ease at killing. The 41st woman explains the mysteries of incarnations.

Times of chaos:

The 40th mother lived in the woods. The 39th woman hears her grandmother’s confession. The 38th woman left the cave where she grew up. The 37th woman recommends thinking of an animal during labor. The 36th woman finds refuge in a cave. The 35th woman remembers her easy life in the city. The 34th woman’s life as a courtesan upsets her zealous mother.

It all starts here: first thread, and the last stories will take place in … present day America.