Gleeman's Tales

by Matthew Travagline

  “Oh, I’m sure.” She made a noise which might have been a giggle under other circumstances.

  Deflated, Gnochi walked toward the stream with his bloody clothes in hand. “I’ll be back,” he said, despite the fact that both his female companions were snickering at him.

  ◆◆◆

  Cleo watched Gnochi recede into the woods back to the stream. She stood and, removing the poncho from her head, stripped her torn clothes from her body. From the pack she had not seen Gnochi open previously, she filched a tan tunic that seemed smaller than all of Gnochi’s other clothes. Pulling it over her head, she noticed a heavy wood-smoke odor clinging to the fabric. Cleo then realized she had also been smelling it from the poncho, but it had been too faint for her to identify it. Despite tying the top of the shirt, it still drooped around her short arms and slight bust. She found a wool-lined leather jerkin which, also smelling of smoke, fit snug and wondered why he, for whom the jerkin would have been much too tight, encumbered himself with weight that would be unusable when she had already heard him grumbling a few times over the past week about pack management. Cleo also snagged a pair of trousers that were so loose, she had to hold them up to her waist.

  Continuing to loot through the same pack in hopes of discovering a belt, Cleo sorted out the odds, ends, and other loose garments, all smelling of smoke. A leather-bound journal caught her eye as she pulled it out into the sun. She thumbed through its soft pages, but they were all blank. The only distinguishable characteristic of the book was the emblazoned coat of arms on the front cover.

  Stamped below a kite shield, contained in a scroll, were the foreign words “Res Severa Est Verum Gaudium.” Intricately penned, the name Gleeman lined the bottom lip of the shield. In the center was an open book, flanked on the left by a rose and on the right by an ink well and quill pen. Set back behind the book on the shield was a guitar, its body partly below and its neck jutting above the book. Half a dozen orbs arced over the top. Cleo traced her fingers over the fine details in the engraving. They came off with a thin layer of ashy dust.

  Gnochi came walking back into camp, clothed in his pants and leather armor but without his shirt. When he saw her looking at the book, he said, “Can’t keep anything hidden from you, can I, Cleo?”

  “Sorry, I was looking for a belt, and I got distracted,” she confessed, her eyes shifting back to the book.

  “So it seems.” Gnochi’s eyes widened when he looked at the clothes Cleo now donned. “Well, I need a new shirt, so toss me one and I’ll make you a belt strap from a pack.” Cleo looked to the remaining clothes and tossed Gnochi a dirt stained white tunic with frayed brown lacing down the chest.

  “Tell me about that,” Cleo said, pointing to the journal.

  “It’s my family’s coat of arms,” Gnochi said, pulling a pendant from around his neck, though not the one which elicited his strange reaction at the inn. He passed it to Cleo.

  She realized with awe how the same design that emblazoned the journal appeared carved into the pewter pendant. Her fingers rubbed over the warm surface in an action she imagined Gnochi unconsciously performing because all the edges had smoothed over time, though not enough to prevent each element from rising off the shield. She noticed precise cuts and grooves on the bottom of the scroll bearing the unknown script. The rough texture reminded her of the teeth of a key, and she wondered if the pendant served a second purpose, but she refrained from asking because she saw a mix of preoccupation and frustration adorning Gnochi’s face.

  He cut a strip of leather from one of the packs and tossed it to Cleo saying, “That’ll do as a belt for now.” She looped it around her waist and knotted it tightly.

  “Every male from my father, to his father, and his father, all the way up to our first age ancestors (at least those recorded) were entertainers,” Gnochi explained. “Before I adopted the dual names, the shield was essentially the family surname. My great-great grandfather Nenni was a juggler. He was the first in our line to adopt the coat of arms. Obviously, the coat has changed since his time—in fact, each of my forefathers altered it to highlight their tool of choice—but, as a storyteller, I appreciate what each has contributed to the woven story of my family. I paid homage to all my fathers.

  “From Nenni came the rose and the—”

  “Why the rose?” Cleo asked.

  “He was promiscuous by all accounts. A farmer.” Gnochi paused. “The orbs are also from his time. There are records that say he could juggle anything: balls, swords, flaming torches, food. You name it, he could juggle it. He was prominent in all the right social circles. Eventually he was hired to work for the crown as a royal jester. Because of his success, his fame, and his wealth, the coat was initially created. He also scribed the first age phrase to the scroll under the coat.” Gnochi looked to the journal. “Res Severa Est Verum Gaudium; it’s in a first age language that even the first age abandoned to the sands of time. While it has a few meanings, Nenni always insisted that it translated to: ‘True joy is a serious business.’ He was a politician and an advisor, but above that, he was an entertainer.

  “Nenni’s son: Meri, my grandfather, was the story-teller. I still remember sitting on his lap as a child. He would tell me these elaborate stories from the first age. He added the book and the quill-and-ink-well,” Gnochi said with a distant yearning in his voice. “He was the one who introduced me to the library.”

  “What library?” Cleo asked, fearing that the silence was an indication that he was done talking about his family.

  “A library entrusted to our family as old as the first age and even older. Kept within, are thousands, maybe tens-of-thousands of texts and remnants from the first age. It was a sanctuary of sorts for knowledge and for my ancestors. Legend has it that my family survived the war that ended the world by hiding in the library. As a child, I practically lived in there, soaking up as many of the texts as I could.” Gnochi paused, huffing out a sigh. “I can’t tell you the last time I was there though.”

  “Why,” Cleo asked. She found herself wondering if the library he described resembled at all the library her father maintained. Many of the texts he kept within were written in first age languages.

  “I have to strain my eyes to see even the largest print within books. It’s been this way for—I don’t know, a while now.” Gnochi took in a deep breath of the crisp air and continued. “My father, Avril, was the musician. Taught me to play. A damn fine musician he was. Added the guitar, his signature, to the coat. He was murdered during the last winteryear because he wouldn’t give up his guitar for firewood.”

  Cleo gasped. “So that leaves you. What was your contribution?”

  “Gleeman was my addition. I borrowed the name from two places: the actual lives of early first age entertainers and from the lore of late first age entertainers,” Gnochi explained.

  “You’re a man who brings glee. A storyteller,” Cleo resounded.

  “Quite ironic considering my physical state and the story that I told back in Imuny. In my defense, I was in no mood to tell a happy story. But alas, I am Gnochi Gleeman and he is me,” Gnochi announced taking a slight bow. “Yes, I’m a bard by trade, but I know my way around a guitar,” Gnochi thumbed the guitar case on the ground, “and am fairly efficient in a handful of the entertainer’s arts. It is a pleasure, after this first week of travel, to officially make your acquaintance. Though, I suppose I don’t really know who you are, Miss Cleo—”

  “So, back to my first question: what is that?” Cleo ignored Gnochi and instead pointed to the journal.

  “It’s a journal,” Gnochi replied.

  “It’s empty.”

  “I am aware.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my eyes failed me before I could write in it.”

  “Well, what were you going to write in it?”

  “I was planning on writing all of my stories before my memory failed me. Guess the eyes got the jump on me though. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to fill this journal.�
��

  A long minute passed. Gnochi had replaced the journal into its pack and was preparing Perogie for the day’s walk when Cleo shouted out: “I’ve got it! I’ll write them.” Gnochi stared at her without saying anything. “I’ll transcribe your stories and fill the journal. Fill it with the Gleeman’s Tales. You said it yourself, I’m your apprentice. Let me be your eyes and hands,” Cleo said, planning a future in excitement.

  “Absolutely not!”

  Chapter 8

  Vicious winds whipped the torn banner of Providence’s Royal Menagerie which adorned its highest pole, towering above their camp. Patches of all colors sewn together supported the dirty white canvas cone that formed the roof of the central circus tent. The state of players in the menagerie reflected the shambled appearance of the primary tent. Rumors spread, claiming that most of the troupe was said to have died when a flu virus ravaged the ranks. The staff set up secondary tents and worked to ground the dozens of wagons in preparation for a week of repairs.

  At this point, Perm members were looking forward to returning to Nimbus, the entertainer’s mobile city so they could recuperate and hire replacements.

  At least, that’s the story they told their patrons.

  A grey-haired woman led a pack of the menagerie’s child-members off into the woods, each clutching a hemp sack. A shout halted her progress. Harvey, a young man nigh on his twentieth year, clutched a jar stuffed with a handful of golden hay. He ran to intercept her, then whispered in her ear, offering the jar, which she placed in her sack.

  Harvey then jogged back to the main tent, ducking under its dirty flap. Inside bustled a few dozen of the people that called Providence’s Royal Menagerie, home. Two men patrolled the exterior of the tent’s drapes, slouching on their spears as they droned through their routines. Such a large group of travelers dissuaded would-be brigands from approaching, and outside of such a small town, thieves were scarce as they were shy. Small cook fires exuded tendrils of greasy smoke that danced up the spire of the tent before escaping through one of the small open chimney slits. Much of the heat failed to escape the tent, so within a minute of walking its makeshift streets, Harvey’s skin, with the vibrancy of oak crackling in a fire, glistened with sweat. Light from flickering torches and fires danced across his smooth hands. Splotches of perspiration bloomed under his arms and down his back. After another minute of navigating between tables and benches, he pushed through the tent’s rear exit and was shocked to discover how cold the air had turned. The same sweat that had beaded so furiously down his forehead and arms before, now chilled his bones as it threatened to freeze solid.

  Enclosed by fencing twice his height, resided Typhus The Terrible, a huge rain-grey elephant that happened to be Harvey’s mount. Harvey saw Typhus duck under the chilly breeze by standing as close to the tent wall as possible. Speaking calmly to his mount, Harvey reassured, “I’ve sent Nettles out to get you some bone-flower. That should fix your stomach up fine then, Typhus.” The giant snorted air through his long trunk as if in recognition of its name. Harvey ran calm hands over its wrinkled trunk. “We’ll have you back to normal in no time. I know that the cold air can get to you and make you sick. I promise we are heading west. While it won’t get any warmer, it shouldn’t get any colder until we have you back in your permanent stable.” The elephant tapped Harvey’s shoulder with his trunk. Turning around, Harvey smiled to see Roy attempting to sneak up and scare him.

  “Gah! What, can you speak elephant or something?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” Harvey said, laughing.

  “I’ll get you one of these days, Harv. Rest assured, it’ll happen,” Roy promised, shaking his head. The dwindling sunset reflected dark pink and oranges streaks through his fair shaggy hair.

  “You know,” Harvey said, crossing his lean arms over his chest. “Some of us have real jobs that occupy our time.”

  “I do have a real job,” Roy said, puffing his chest to exaggerate his already toned muscles. He unsheathed his steel sword from its plain scabbard and sliced at an invisible foe. “I am one of a dedicated few tasked with defending this fine circus.”

  “Put that away, you moron,” Harvey said, swatting the flat of the blade down. “Are you trying to make Typhus stampede?” Roy sheathed his sword and shook his head. “Oh,” Harvey added, snapping his fingers, “and you are the only defense? Did you forget that we travel as—”

  “Hush, Harv. You’re always ruining my fun. Come on,” Roy said, tugging on Harvey’s arm, much like he used to when the teens were children. “Let’s go see if any of these country folk have come out to see the Royal Menagerie,” he said, spreading his arms in grandeur. “The finest traveling show in all of Lyrinth.”

  Harvey rolled his eyes as Roy led him around the side of the tent towards the patron entrance, the only clean facet of the tent. “I should’ve had Nettles pick up some herbs to cure whatever delusions are currently wracking your brain, my brother.”

  “You say delusions, but I know we will turn this corner and see at least a few bumpkin children towing their parents with their saved pence eager to see the carnival.” As the two rounded the curve, they were not met with a crowd awaiting admission. Instead of seeing a rowdy line, Roy and Harvey met a crowd of their fellow performers grouped in the clearing before the woods, all heads trained to the evening sky. Roy ran, tugging Harvey along, his grip tight on Harvey’s thin forearm, still slick with chilled sweat.

  “I could’ve told you,” Harvey huffed. “I was around earlier and didn’t see any crowds,” he said, struggling to keep up.

  Roy led them to the back of the crowd. “What’s going on?” he asked, tapping the shoulder of another performer.

  “There,” the man said, pointing his bony finger. “Over the trees. Looks to be a fire in town.” A column of black smoke, the darkest part of the evening sky, billowed into the receding twilight. Harvey scanned the crowd for Dorothea, the menagerie’s ringleader. Not seeing him in the crowd, he yanked Roy towards the tent’s main entrance and pulled him under the flap.

  “Welcome guests to Providence’s Royal—oh, it’s just you two. You know I don’t like performers using this entrance. I don’t want your grimy hands mucking up the flap.” The squat ringleader was dressed in an elegant coral suit with pronounced coat tails. His voice sounded harsh and a few pitches lower than would be expected. He brandished a cane with a gaudy gem set in the handle, though he never relied on it for support. His stocky body stood on a tipped crate, the wood bowing under his weight.

  “Dorothea, there is a fire in town,” Harvey said, managing to contain his contempt.

  “Yes,” he said, tapping his smooth chin. “It is quite unfortunate that on the opening night of our final week of showings, this dreadful business keeps our customers away.”

  “Are we sending help?” Harvey asked. He spied Roy winced at the brashness of his words.

  “Of course not.”

  “Why not?” Harvey emphasized each word clenching his fists. His voice rising, he continued: “You’re going to let the town fend for itself? What if people are dying?”

  Two of Dorothea’s personal guards converged, drawing their swords and leveling them at Harvey and Roy.

  “At ease, my men,” Dorothea’s light voice and raised hands placated his guards. “Customarily,” he raised his voice in an effort to inform any other player who happened to be within earshot, “my inferiors greet their ringleader with respect and tact before making wild accusations.” Dorothea raised one of his pudgy hands and smoothed his upper lip. “Now, take a moment to think through what you want to say, Elephanteer.” The ringleader paused for a moment before asking, “What can I help you with?”

  Harvey made to speak, but Roy interrupted him with a light elbow to the ribs and asked, “Will you allow us to venture into town and help them fight their fire?” Roy looked at Harvey while Dorothea stood pondering. He offered Harvey a grin and two thumbs up.

  “A peculiar thing, fire is.” Dorothea hopp
ed down from his box and walked to the tent’s front flap. Prodding with his cane, he pulled the flap aside and gazed up at the column of smoke that seemed a permanent feature of the darkening sky. A sword hilt protruded from behind his jacket, Dorothea’s hand found purchase on its regaled hilt. “Such a destructive force, yet its sole purpose is to aid in rebirth.” A fanatical light glossed over Dorothea’s eyes. “Through ash, new trees are sewn. The fire in a man’s loins seeds his woman’s fertile soil. When our very world burned, a new one was reborn in its wake.” Dorothea returned to the interior of the tent and looked to a tiny column of smoke billowing from a lit metal brazier. He pulled a dagger from his belt and picked at some invisible food between his teeth. “No one,” he offered, “from this menagerie is to enter Pike’s Cathedral while they are battling the blaze. We will approach tomorrow morning as a group. If the fire still burns, we shall wait until the following sun before visiting. That is final.” Dorothea replaced his knife and smiled at the grimace that painted Harvey’s face. “And Elephanteer, should I find out that anyone snuck into town, for whatever reason. Well, I’ll feed whoever it is to that elephant, Tyson, of yours.” Dorothea walked toward another section of the tent.

  “Typhus,” Harvey spat, “is a vegetarian.”

  “What was that, Elephanteer?”

  “Nothing,” Harvey mumbled. After a moment, he added, “Sire.”

  “Good.”

  ◆◆◆

  Picking his way over sleeping comrades, Harvey pawed out of the tent, gulping in the crisp night air. It was unseasonably cold, Harvey thought as he approached the edge of the clearing. He took a breath and sat, back to a thin tree, thinking upon the one other winteryear he had lived through in his brief life.

  At the time, he was living in Blue Haven. Harvey and his gang had struggled to find food and warmth. Firewood stores predicted to keep the city comfortable and warm for the entirety of the year had burned through within the first six months. Anything made of wood not affixed to the royal palace had been in cinders by the next month’s end. The city had been nigh on the verge of chaos. Eventually the first shipment of winterbush kindling had arrived from the east coast and greedy fires had once again blazed in every hearth.