Pagewalker

by C. Mahood

  “Are you two still awake?” Oisin shouted back to us.

  “Aye mate, loving it, keep going!” I shouted back to him. He continued.

  “One morning the story-teller woke from his sleep early and suddenly, he rose from his bed and walked to the window. Every morning his ritual was to pray to the nameless God for inspiration from the land. He would look out far over the hills and streams, stone walls crumbling with age and on to the edge of the cliffs leading steeply and sharply down to the coast. He would see far and wide and believed that his God would tell him the stories of the nights. Calling the animals by name and the adventures they had that evening.” Oisin acted and made impressions as he did this bringing the story to life once more.

  Continuing he said, “The Story-teller would listen gladly and wonder of ways of weaving these incidents into stories for the king that night. Although this morning he found himself quite blank; after praying and looking outward in silence he left the room with no words of inspiration. He dressed and wandered the town, listening to the conversations of the villagers in the market.”

  “That’s a bit creepy” Sarah jested,

  “Shut up babe” I laughed “Let him go on, Continue Oisin” I shouted forward again.

  “Aondor was a bustling town. Its market place was, and still is famous. It was the main trading post outside of Sáann. Many people would travel from Dawn, Xill and even the dwarf city. Town’s folk and fishermen living on the three join river would come to sell their wares. Sáann was a great city, but the people of Northland preferred quiet solitude, an easy way of life and plenty of room to breathe in the northern, crisp air. Tall buildings and tight streets did not appeal to most. It took a special kind of person to love the city and a very special type of person to live there. The storyteller would often hear the many different events from week to week by walking the market. Today was different however. He walked through the town square, past the wishing well, over the three stone bridges that crossed the many streams that flowed through Aondor to the edge of the town. Out of the main town gates, guarded by two men that he had yet to see awake. They sat all day long leading against the wooden frame with helmets over their faces blocking out the sun from disturbing their morning nap. Following the rickety wooden fences that formed a path between the wheat fields, vegetable patches and the windmills on the outskirts. Following this path that ran parallel to bubble stream, it led winding up the small hill and out into the forest. He listened to the birds chirp in the trees, the horses running on the field and the water trickle by the brook where he eventually sat. Although he heard the sounds he could not hear the story.”

  “That must be hard, writers block I mean” Sarah said, you wouldn’t have that problem love would you?” Sarah asked me.

  “Well not really when I wrote Dertrid's Deed but I do when I'm with the band.” I replied.

  “with the band? But sure your only a drummer, not a musician.” She said while tickling my ribs.

  “Aye whatever babe,” I laughed “So what happened next Oisin?” I said. Oisin carried on with the story.

  “After several hours in prayer he returned to his house without being able to think of anything new or strange. He found it easy to rely on his old opening lines such as” Oisin put on his best Aondor accent,

  "there was once a king who had two sons “or " one day the king of all Northland," We both laughed at the accent which sounded strangely like ballymena one,

  “but he could not muse much farther than that, he could not get the words to align. Annoyed and worried he went in to breakfast, on arrival he found his wife waiting by the door way, she did not seem annoyed by his absence but worried at his delay. She knew her husband had a skill for word play but she was also more than aware of her husband’s hunger and had not known him to ever by late for a meal, or worse still a drink!” Oisin went on with the story. Sarah and I both fell into a meditative like state, We were not asleep but we could see the story play out in front of us and under our eyelids. The true art of storytelling is taking the listener there. Oisin did just that. We could see the story play out in front of us now like a stage light drama….

  "Why do you come to breakfast so late, it is not like you my dear?" His wife said.

  "I have no interest or desire eat anything," replied the story teller; "as long as I have been in court of the king of Sáann, I never sat down to break our fast without having a new story ready for the evening, I cannot eat before I tell you my tale, but this morning my mind is as clear as a summer sky, with no clouds taking form to make shapes or birds flying by to make songs. I don't know what to do. I might as well lie down and die at once. I'll be disgraced for ever this evening, when the king calls for his story-teller."

  His wife held his head and lifted his chin to meet her gaze, she held it there and smiled, kissing his forehead and looking deep into his eyes, she had skills of her own, one of which was knowing how to brighten her husband’s mood. She pushed the plate of bacon and eggs closer to her husband, “let this inspire you for now” She said as she left him there to eat the plate piled high with food. Just at this moment she looked out of the window. Spotting something she called to her husband,

  "Do you see that black thing at the end of the field?" said she.

  "I do," replied her husband.

  They are coming into the town, I saw a miserable looking old man and a thin limping dog, lying on the ground with a wooden leg placed between him.

  The story-teller saw his chance for a new muse and ran, grabbing his cloak, bag of parchment and led pencils, He grabbed his last rasher of bacon in his mouth as he rushed through the kitchen and out into the street.

  "Who are you, my good man?" asked the story-teller once he caught his breath and wiped the remnants of crumbs from his tunic and beard.

  “Haha 'tis little matter who I am. I'm a poor, old, lame, decrepit, miserable creature, sitting down here to rest awhile. This is Belle however" The Dog Cocked its black head as it looked curiously at the story teller, Up close he could see that the dog was thin but well fed and fit. Most likely an old sheep dog or a working dog of some type. A streak of white fur at her paws was all that could be seen under the black fur that covered its entire body, a brown patch on her eye and a copper line down her nose gave her the playful look to go with this ageing dog’s character.

  The story teller noticed nothing but and old black tunic that covered the old man he wore it like a blanket wrapped around him, like a towel draped around a child after swimming in the lake. His only possessions were a small leather sack and a box

  "What are you doing with that box and dice I see in your hand?”

  "I am waiting here to see if anyone will play a game with me, I travel Northland now out of love for the land. I Have No roof that covers my head most nights but I have a home in these here lands. God keeps me safe so you can rest easy and remove that mask of pity that sits so well on your face" replied the beggar man with an honest and mischievous smile.

  "Play with you! Why what has a poor old man like you to play for?"

  "I have one hundred pieces of gold in this leathern purse," replied the old man.

  "You may as well play with him," said the story-teller's wife; who had caught up with him carrying a plate of eggs for the beggar and trimmings of fat for the Dog "and perhaps you'll have something to tell the king in the evening."

  The Story teller agreed happily, knowing his wife was right in all matters. He had been married long enough to obey her rather than agree. He knew the difference. The Beggar set up the game and a smooth stone was placed between them, and upon it they cast their die throws.

  It was but a little while and the story-teller lost every penny of his money.

  "Will you play again?" asked the old man.

  "With what you have taken all the money we have to spare today. My wife keeps it all hidden so I don’t drink it or lose it gambling to strangers as I have just done"

  "Haven't you a house, garments and tools?"
r />   "Well, what of them!"

  "I'll stake all the money I have against those."

  "Nonsense, man! Do you think for all the money in Northland, I'd run the risk of seeing my lady tramp home barefoot? Would not be long before my head would be under that barefoot and an earful of woe would fall on me!"

  "Maybe you'd win," said the Beggar.

  "Maybe I wouldn't," said the story-teller.

  "Oh go on, Play with him husband," said his wife. "But if you win we will be visiting the market later, the seamstress, Tayler and jeweller will know us by name!"

  “Seems I loose either way, I never refused you before," said the story-teller, "and I won't do so now.”

  Down he sat again, and in one throw lost everything.

  "Will you play again?" asked the beggar, petting Tessa as he licked the bowel of fat.

  "Are you making game of me? What else have I left to stake?”

  "I'll stake all my winnings against your wife,' laughed the old man.

  The story-teller turned away annoyed and feeling cheated, but his wife stopped him.

  "Go on my love, Accept his offer," said she. “This is the third time, and who knows what luck you may have? You always have good luck, God talks to you! You'll surely win now."

  They played again, the game lasted much longer this time but once again the story-teller lost. No sooner had he done so, than to his surprise, his wife went and sat down near the old beggar. Laughing she petted Belle who rested her head on her lap.

  “Is that the way you're leaving me my love, have you finally found a way to escape me?" laughed the story-teller.

  "Sure I was won," she said. "You would not cheat the poor man, would you?" Winking to her husband she mockingly rested her head on the beggar’s shoulder.

  "Have you anything more to offer?" asked the old man.

  "You know very well I have nothing, you already have my most valuable possession" replied the storyteller.

  "I'll stake the whole now, wife and all, against your own self," said the old man.

  “ME?”

  “Yes, everything you have against everything you are”

  “Everything I am cannot be taken friend, I am one in a million!” The story teller thrust out his chest in a playful theatrical manner. His wife laughed and so did the old beggar.

  “We will see” said the beggar in a mocking tone, He then lay the stones, pieces and dice on the ground in front of them.

  Again they played, and again the story-teller lost.

  "Well! Here I am, and what do you want with me?"

  "I'll soon let you know," said the old man, and he took from his pocket a wand.

  "Now," said he to the story-teller, "what kind of animal would you rather be, a deer, a fox, or a hare? You have your choice now, but you may not have it later."

  The story-teller made his choice,

  “A hare”

  The old man, struck him with the wand, and lo! A long-eared, frisking hare was skipping and jumping on the green.

  The storyteller’s wife laughed as she watched her husband jumping around in front of her,

  “That is a great trick, you are a great wizard! You can stay with us any time you so wish! But now as I am your new wife, can I ask you one favour?”

  The beggar turned to his newly acquired wife, “Already making demands, I see now why he gambled you for money”

  “My real husband is a story teller but today he awoke with no stories, he has finally run out, could you please tell him some so he may please the king?”

  The beggar laughed and waved his wand once more, “Better yet, I will show him”

  Suddenly Belle the dog grew double in size, her hair longer, teeth sharper, legs firmer and eyes clearer, ~She Spotted the hair and chased her from sight of the beggar.

  The Story-teller fled, the dog followed. Round the field ran a high wall, so no matter how fast he ran, he couldn't get out, the beggar and lady watched him twist and double. Back and forth, over the hills and under the trees, through stalls in the market, knocking over shoppers and stalls as they burst through the town square.

  In vain the story-teller took refuge with a shop keep, but on the realisation of the shop keeps profession as butcher the story teller scarpered! The Butcher kicked him back again to the hound, until at length the beggar stopped the hound, and with a stroke of the wand, panting and breathless, Belle shrank down to her normal size and calmly walked over to sit by the story-teller’s wife. Another twist of the wand and there stood the story-teller again.

  "And how did you like the sport?" said the beggar.

  "It might be sport to others," replied the story-teller looking at his wife, "I however will never eat or hunt rabbit again!”

  "Would it be asking too much," he went on to the beggar, "to know who you are at all, or where you come from, or why you take a pleasure in plaguing a silly old man like me?"

  "Oh !" replied the stranger, " I'm an odd kind of good-for-little fellow, one day poor, another day rich, but if you wish to know more about me or my habits, come with me and perhaps I may show you more than you would make out if you went alone."

  "I'm not my own master to go or stay," said the story-teller, with a sigh and a glance to his wife.

  “Go, both of you, Belle will remain with me and we will spend my new husband’s money!”

  Both men laughed and agreed to adventure farther. The Story teller-kissed his wife and joined the beggar on the road. “I will have great stories to tell my dear when I return!” He shouted back to his wife!

  “I have no doubt of that, my love” She replied and watched the two blend into the crowd and disappear.

  A little while down the path, out of the town of Aondor, past the City of Sáann on the Horizon. Past the town of Dawn and heading East onto Lake Regal on their right, the Beggar stopped. He sat on a large stone and began to wash his feet and hands. The Storyteller noticed scars up the beggar’s legs and arms and large scars and bruises around his wrists. On his left foot was an iron bracelet with two links of chain attached to it. The beggar noticed the storytellers gaze and covered his arms again with his cloak.

  “She is still your wife my friend, there are some things a man cannot take from another. Your trust being another. I cast a spell on you to turn you into an animal and even after that you still trust and wish to travel as my companion for a while. That truly is a gift from you in itself, I thank you” Said the Beggar.

  “Never before have I met a man such as yourself, please tell me, what is your name? Where do you hail from?”

  The beggar remained seated. Starting at his hands he recollected his long history. I have been many places my friend, made many mistakes, hurt many folk and only now as an old man do I feel remorse and guilt. Only now do I wish to make it right.” The beggar stood once more and lifted a long branch from the ground. A strong, sturdy branch that would act well as a walking stick for him. “You may have noticed that I have a leg missing and the other is bound by chains. I was once in Prison. In the City of Renir. I had stolen many things. Made a living as a rogue, pickpocket and sell sword. For many years I travelled Northland preying off the week and wealthy until one day I met my match. After our altercation my freedom was taken and I have called the prison in Renir my home for many years. That is also where my leg remains. The rest of me was not willing to stay much longer. That is a story for another time though my friend. We have much travelling yet to do today.” The Beggar began to walk on leaving the story teller full of excitement. This was what he needed for a good story to tell His king. He wanted to learn more about the beggar and this ‘altercation.’

  “Please, I don’t know your name, I do not wish to call you beggar on our travels, what should I call you?”

  The Beggar Laughed, “Just call me, friend.”

  After a long time on the road. They approached the Great Dwarf City. Its True name cannot be said by the tongues of men. It is written in such deep dwarfish that most dwarves call it simply “The City”
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  “Your wife asked me to show you stories. Here we will find a great few tales for your books! But you cannot be seen, you must stay hidden.” Said the Beggar

  “But how can a see these great halls, hear these songs and live these tales if I hide out here.” Remarked the storyteller

  “No, you will be with me but you must trust me, do you trust me?”

  “I Suppose I have no choice but you have been fair thus far when you could have taken everything and left me.”

  “Good!” The Beggar again took out his wand and tapped it on The Story-Tellers head.

  “Wait!”

  “Yes?”

  “Please, not a rodent again, they smell awful!”

  The Beggar laughed and agreed, the wand tapped the story-tellers head shrinking him down to the size of a mouse. The Story Teller Lifted him onto his shoulder and told him to hide amongst his hair and he will be able to see everything if he is quiet.

  Grand Master Penla was in his hall, after returning from the Great Battle of Northland where he alone re-united the dwarf clans into a single army to fight for the fate of Northland and won the freedom they so deserved. He returned and re-established the City and was elected king shortly after. The road was long however and the clans of dwarves do not agree on things easily, Penla has worked hard on unity and bringing the cultures together to help the dwarf city thrive once more. Heaviness of flesh and weariness of spirit were upon him. He was tired and weary of ruling, He missed travelling in his cart and selling the scraps he salvaged and stole. The Life of a king was never meant for him as it was his friend Dertrid

  "Go out," he said to his doorkeeper, “see who, or what may be coming."

  The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank, grey beggar man; half his sword showing from behind his haunch, his two shoes were damp from swamp water, trousers torn from climbing and sleeping rough on the roads, the tips of his two ears poking out through his old hat and his two scared shoulders out through his scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a green wand of holly.

  "Hail, King Penla," said the lank grey beggar man.