Gleeman's Tales

by Matthew Travagline

  “We all performed,” Roy said. “And Zara took over for your part. You weren’t feeling good.” His eyes dropped to his hands. “I suppose we should’ve been more active in monitoring your health.”

  “Even if you had been in your right mind, we were forbidden to perform after that point,” Cleo said. At her words, the group’s mood was quieted.

  “That really is your passion, Gnochi?” It was Cig. She had been silent during much of their chatter.

  “Oh, yes! If I could enlighten the whole world on what they’ve been missing, I would. If I could write one book of the history of the first age and mass-produce it so that everyone could have one, I would. The problem is: the first age is about as foreign to the average person as it could be. Most hardly believe it existed at all, that the technological prowess of millennia old are merely children’s tall-tales and not the absolute truth.”

  Cleo saw that Gnochi was delving deep into a tangent, but she didn’t have the heart to stop him. It had been weeks since he’d been this wholly engrossed in his words. Even though they recited the play without a hitch, he had still seemed off to her at the time. In hindsight, she realized, Gnochi must have been spiraling into his hallucinations.

  “The first age was fascinating, and I wish I could share that knowledge with everyone. I mean, consider this. The means existed for two people to communicate instantaneously from across the world and from worlds across. And the weaponry was at levels unfathomable now. The gun that nearly killed me is a grain of sand in the deserted armory of the first age. And most people now cannot even view space travel as a possibility, but in the first age, it was the norm. In their time, they landed on our moon, and had plans to colonize the universe. Mars was mentioned as a destination. As were the moons of distant planets.”

  “You said colonies?” Harvey asked. “Colonies full of people living away from the Earth when the first age ended?” He sounded as though he doubted the words coming from his own mouth.

  “As far as I’ve read, there was a plan to send ships out, but their records end just before the end of the first age.”

  “So those people, or rather, the descendants of those, could be alive?”

  “I truly have no idea. The answer to that question might be the only answer I desire to know more than any other. Could there potentially be humans who’ve been apart from our world for millennia? It’s a possibility, but I’ve yet to see evidence showing that to be true. Would they not have come back to Earth, especially after knowing what we went through? Even just to look?” Gnochi paused for a moment, then said, “But think of the possibilities.”

  “And I can think of one group,” Cleo said, “that would do everything in its power to prevent any knowledge of their presence to leak out, let alone sit idly while they poison us with their stories of technology and progress.”

  “And are they truly at fault?” Gnochi asked. “If by some means they have survived all these years later, they to us will be what we are to animals. If the wrong people have survived, we could find ourselves under a tyranny worse than any we can now imagine. Should they choose to withhold their technology, our rebellions would be fueled by swords; their regimes, backed by guns. At least, unless they’ve invented something stronger in the meanwhile.” Cleo scowled at Gnochi’s pessimism and his continued defense of Luddite ideology. “Again,” Gnochi said, addressing her look, “I’m not condoning their violence, but I can understand why they are working to snuff out advanced technological development. The farther we stay away from late first age tech, the less likely we are to invent, or rather re-invent, the weaponry capable of destroying our world, succeeding where our predecessors failed.”

  “Ironic hearing you speak like that, Gnochi, considering that your stories only encourage people to look towards the future by understanding the past.” Harvey picked at his finger with the point of a knife.

  “I guess I have some figuring-out to do. Am I more supportive of an educated population who knows their own past or do I fear more the inevitability of people repeating those mistakes despite their best intentions?” Silence gripped the cave at Gnochi’s solemn words.

  “So, I’d say you more than answered my simple yes or no question, Gnochi,” Cig said, smiling at his blushing cheeks. “I know how you can pay us back. Tell us a story.”

  Chapter 39

  Gnochi looked over his current audience of four—six if he counted Fester and Fester-Two—who huddled around the small fire near the cave’s entrance. Despite its slight stature, the blaze was warming the cave to almost nauseating levels. As the night wore on, the rain lessened its attack on the mountain. Cleo sat closest to the greedy flame, the journal on her lap, a mere breath from its destructive reach. Gnochi glanced over her stooped shoulders, judging what she had written already.

  “Keep your strokes as terse and exact as possible. A scribe should not let her own physicalities and peculiarities bleed through her writing.” He paced around the cave until he was directly across the fire from her. “Your reader should not be able to tell that you wrote this in poor firelight while not having slept properly in—”

  “Weeks,” Cleo offered.

  “Your writing should look the same day in and night out,” Gnochi lectured. “That’s part of the reason why I couldn’t write anything longer than a night’s worth.” Gnochi chuckled, surveying his audience once again.

  He saw Roy huddled tight into a cloak before the fire as though begging for warmth. The teen’s teeth chattered uncontrollably and his hands were busy rubbing warmth into his less-protected legs. His eyes next fell to Harvey, who sat facing the cave’s entrance. The older teen’s gaze often shifted up to the dying maelstrom outside as though he anticipated danger. The fire played off his eyes, accenting the natural hints of reddish brown already illuminated by the low light.

  Gnochi felt Kib staring at him from the darkest nook of the cave’s upper chamber. His pale eyes never seemed to rest in their vigilant observation of the travelers around the fire. As Gnochi’s gaze fell over the mysterious protector, their eyes met, and he felt his stomach tighten up. He cleared his throat in a forced method to break the stare. Just then, Cig rushed into the front of the cave from its lower portion. She nodded to Gnochi and sat next to Kib, in the dark. He saw the two exchange a look. Kib’s eyes fell to her hand. A chain spilled from below her fingers. The refined sheen of silver caught the faintest ray of light offered by the fire.

  “Sorry for the delay,” Cig offered. “You may begin when you are ready.”

  “No worries,” Gnochi said. “I needed to make sure that my apprentice hasn’t been slacking in my recent absences.” Gnochi sent a quick smile Cleo’s way, which she returned. As suddenly though, he adopted a serious countenance. “Something happened to me. Something other than getting shot and poisoned. A story I remember hearing from another bard resurfaced from the recesses of my mind where I stowed it away. I’ve yet to tell anyone this story before. So, bear with me if I am shaken.”

  ◆◆◆

  The Great Boat

  The kernel of an idea springs you from a sweet slumber. You think, “This could work.” Picking your head up, you squint at the alarm clock. Through sleep-coated eyes, you see the combination of violent-red numbers making up the time. 2:32. You contemplate rousing yourself from the cocoon in which you sleep; after all, story ideas are hard to come by. The idea continues to play out in your head, so you decide to cultivate it before expelling yourself from the warmth.

  You are the sole person on a boat in the middle of the ocean. The hypnotic lapping of waves calms you. Retreating below deck to rest in your hammock, you find that the rhythmic lull of the ocean, coupled with dank, salt-laced air, accentuates your fatigue.

  An alarm yanks you awake. You shiver, no longer enveloped by blankets and warmth. The sun shines a harsh light through your window, threatening to burn your face. Looking over, you see the clock, its red numerals timid in the seventh hour while they were bold in the second. You stumble off you
r bed, tripping on a knot of blanket that had enveloped your foot. A sheet of loose-leaf with a smattering of math problems penciled on the front becomes your storyboard. The idea has disappeared from your mind. After an hour of sitting before a blank page, your mom calls up to you, reminding you of school.

  Skipping breakfast was stupid. You know your brain only works at half capacity without food. Or was it that your brain only uses half of its capacity at any given time? You silently wish your brain would use the other fifty percent of its reserves to recall this story idea. You spent all of zero-period in the cafeteria staring at the back of your math homework willing anything to resurrect itself from the abyss of your mind.

  First period you have study-hall, so you skip, remaining hunched over the now wrinkled sheet of paper. The bagel tastes like cardboard and the milk is room temperature. Not exactly gourmet, but you recall having eaten worse when you were on that cruise that got stranded in the Caribbean.

  You and your fellow crew are on a boat out at sea. Your pen flies across the page, the ink spilling hot under the pen.

  You aren’t pirates, nor soldiers. Closer to mercenaries and merchants. Not so wealthy though. Your rations include salted meat which tastes more like salt than meat.

  “Hey, [your name, pronounced with a nasally sneer],” Avery calls. You look up, feeling as though the ship has beached itself. Avery isn’t a bully, so much as an asshole. You ignore them, diving back into your notes.

  The crew has a problem with alcohol. Maybe you all are closer to pirates than anything else. One particular crewmember, Avery Eva, has a problem with—

  Avery tears the paper from your hands. “What are you working on? Math? No? A pirate tale?” You feel yanked from your story world like a fish pulled by the hook in its mouth. A rip decorates the top third of the page. On one side, you risk losing the first questions on your homework; on the other, your story loses its setting. You snatch the sheet back, ripping it further in the process. The section on Eva dangles off, threatening to tear free and separate from your story entirely.

  Maybe you should kill Eva.

  In the process of reacquiring your story, the paper exacts its own revenge on Asshole Avery. The edge of the sheet manages to cut the length of their palm. The side of your page, however, bears no bloody evidence of its attack.

  Perhaps Eva will be run through with a cutlass. A fitting death.

  You are so engrossed in your fantasy that you scantly notice your binder, backpack, and half-eaten cardboard being thrust from the table, a retributory action courtesy of Avery. Time slows to levels fitting for the inevitable movie based on your story. Perhaps the moment when the sword, slipping in blood, pierces through the front buttons of Eva’s shirt. Your eyes flick back to the present, drab world.

  A rogue strap from your bag lashes out, seemingly trying to latch onto something to avoid falling to the dirty ground. It slams into the open carton of room-temperature milk. Waves of white spread out. A stream of it falls to the linoleum floor; a few drips settle into the hem of your shirt, though most, to your dismay, soak into the half-homework, half-storyboard sheet of paper. The already structurally deficient paper implodes on itself with the advent of the dairy. You try patting it dry with a loose napkin, but with every touch, the paper disintegrates further.

  Is that hot breath on your neck or the school’s antiquated heating system sputtering out a burst of warmth? Avery is leaning over to admire their handiwork. You are fighting-mad. You surge up; Avery retreats. You contemplate letting them be, but when you try recalling your story, all that comes to mind is the sinking remains of a once-proud merchant ship laden with all the nuggets of the golden idea. The milky waters of the Bermuda-Triangle-of-story-ideas have claimed yet another soul.

  You’re not as coordinated as your crew, and apparently you have not re-acquired your land-legs, for the faintest trace of milk on the ground is enough to throw you off balance. You slide into Avery, who reels back from your attack. They crash into a table behind them using their head to brace their fall. “Not my finest hour,” you think as blood begins seeping out of a split in Avery’s skull.

  Within two minutes, the milk stretches across the floor joining up with a growing pool of blood. Five minutes later, you are led out of the cafeteria by the school resource officer, the sodden remains of your story idea mopped up by custodians. Two hours later, you are fingerprinted, photographed, and separated from the general population by bars of iron.

  Medically induced coma, you recall hearing, though your mind is awash trying to sustain your story. With no venue to leave your brain, it shrivels up and disappears.

  Half-way through your trial, Avery is pulled off life support. Manslaughter. Guilty.

  “Do you have anything to say to the family?” they ask you.

  “Yes,” you say. “Avery was an asshole, but if you hadn’t pulled them off life support, I wouldn’t be going to prison.” You probably should have censored that before it came out of your mouth. You probably should have eaten breakfast that morning, or opted for the capped apple juice instead of the milk. Avery, though, would’ve been an asshole either way, you decide.

  ◆◆◆

  Considering all the trouble this story caused you, one would think that having it drop from the face of your memory would be impossible. After all, you forfeited years of your youth when, in your attempt to salvage the idea, you killed someone. You are merely a victim of situation. It should not be able to simply disappear after everything you sacrificed for it.

  So, it comes as a big surprise when, years later, you are driving college students around to various bars and, like anything lost in the ocean, your story washes up in your mind’s low tide, covered in sand and barnacles.

  Your crew is wrapping up a long season of shipping goods across the Atlantic. The hold is full of gold from your final stop in Spain. The past weeks have been kind, the waves calm and the winds quiet.

  Suddenly the lad atop the foremast yells out for everyone to look toward the portside horizon. There, fast approaching, is another frigate.

  A car’s blaring horn tears you from your story. You glance in the rear-view mirror and see the gesturing form of an irate driver motioning you to move. Like any good motorist caught in a daydream, you wave an apology and slam on your accelerator. Though the tendrils of your story lurk in your brain, you keep your mind focused on your last fares.

  The moment they leave, you lock your doors and dive into your phone, taking notes on everything you can think of regarding your story. How many people are on the crew? How long have they worked together? When does this crew sail, year-wise? Who is after them and why? What is the name of their ship?

  Something unique like: La Hija del Sol. Maybe they wouldn’t name their ship with such a pun in mind, but it’s your story, so who gives a fuck?

  After nearly an hour, you compile all your notes on your phone and draft an email to send to yourself. You seriously doubt anything will happen to your phone between now and when you get home in twenty minutes, but you don’t want to take any chances. The service is spotty this far from the university, so you put your phone away, hoping it will finish sending the files. You begin driving home.

  It’s a boring night. You roll your windows down to try and remove the stench of alcohol and frat-boy. The cool wind whips at your hair and for a moment, you are transported on deck, the sails unroll so they can catch every ounce of strength from the wind. You shake your head, blinking yourself back to the confines of your 2003 Toyota Corolla.

  Your heart races; breath coming in shallow bursts. You are sure that your palms are hemorrhaging sweat. As you stop before a traffic light, wiping your palms on the fabric seats beneath you, a pickup truck rolls up next to you, its diesel engine giving off a loud purr that tempts you back into your story.

  The pursuing ship closes the distance. They broadside La Hija del Sol and begin barraging her with cannon. You feel a vibration on your hip. It almost pulls you out of the scene, but you chalk i
t off as a splintered piece of debris. A stark cloud of gunpowder dries your nose and throat. You lurch forward, your head reflexively turning to the side. You see two cannonballs and somehow know that they are going to hit you. They will miss the Hija’s hull, their arc too steep. You, however, are not going to be so lucky. The cannonballs morph into tiny suns (the irony not completely lost on you) and fill your vision.

  You blink, and in an instant, you realize that you had leant onto your car’s accelerator and are now halfway in the intersection. The two cannonball-suns from your story are the headlights of another car.

  ◆◆◆

  Over the course of the next months, you undergo extensive hospital treatment and physical training as you recover from the near-death accident. Unfortunately, your brain, in an effort to save you more trauma, has blacked out that entire day. So not only do you not recall any of the idea that you explored that night, but you don’t even remember that you recalled the story after years of idea-drought.

  Your phone, which was totaled at least as badly as your tiny Corolla, had vibrated right before the accident telling you that it failed to deliver the email you were trying to send, so when you finally get a chance to check your email after two weeks, you find it swamped with spam, well wishes from distant relatives who still see email as a viable mode of communication, and a pair of emails from the ride-sharing service you work for. The first is a two-and-a-half star review from your last fares that you had driven around the night of your accident.

  “You should pay more attention when driving,” the review says.

  The second email from the app is one officially terminating you from employment.

  The fact that Sam, your roommate, doesn’t kick you out after your accident is either a sign of divine intervention, as you literally are a monetary parasite while recovering, or that of an opportunist at work. You notice that your pain medication is declining at twice the rate you are taking it. The one time you consider bringing this up to Sam, they infer that the pain pills are helping afford rent and utilities. You continue to fill the prescription long after the pain dissipates, and you leave your bottle out on the counter in the shared bathroom.