Aaron had no idea where he landed that time. The machine had taken him to a murky, pungent grotto somewhere unknown. Passersby spoke old English (so old they would spell it “olde”) and wore heavy brocade robes with hoods.
The musty smell had him gagging and he wanted to be back at Aunt Wilhelmina’s Presidio estate with the comforts of his bubble bath.
“Hark, who goes there?” a bearded man with Bette Davis eyes demanded of him. What was this, a Shakespeare melodrama. Aaron changed his mind. The eyes looked more like Marty Feldman.
“It is I, Aaron Aardvark of San Francisco.” And then he corrected himself – “St. Francis of Assisi.”
“That village is unknown to me. I shall bring you to the king.”
Hours later he stood before the old king with the Methuselah beard. Did all men have beards here? He supposed Gillette hadn’t yet established its foothold in the razor business.
“My Lord, we have an intruder to interrogate.”
“Come forth, heathen, and explain yourself.”
“I am called Aaron Aardvark and I visit from another world, your majesty. I come in peace.” Aaron had absolutely no idea why he was there. He’d turned the dial on his time machine to the Renaissance. He’d wanted to see how Michelangelo chiseled that gorgeous David torso. That damned time machine, always goofing up.
“In that case, I give you to my daughters. Cordelia, Goneril, Regan, make merry with this aardvark from the Bible.”
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