The Tale of Onora: The Boy and the Peddler of Death

by Dylan Saccoccio

  Dani was startled by Aithein’s intensity. She tried not to judge him, but the boy had an incredible rage. Perhaps it was due to being terrorized every time he slept. She tried to appreciate what he was going through. She pretended she hadn’t been warned about the Amori boy who guarded the faelen tree. “Who is Chako?”

  “He is a parasite,” Aithein replied. “He thinks we need him to protect us. But it is he who needs us. Our labors provide for him, not the other way around. I never had nightmares before he arrived.”

  Dani recalled the warnings. “His arrival was recent?”

  Aithein continued walking. “Xas.”

  “If Chako is causing the nightmares, what is his value to the Faelen Tree?” Dani asked.

  “What is my value to him?” Aithein responded.

  “No one has spoken to the faelen tree lately,” Dani said. “Was I summoned to lure you to Chako?”

  “Why would he need you to do that?” Aithein asked.

  “To liberate him,” Dani responded. “Chako may be lying to the Amori to prevent you from visiting. What if you have been tasked to banish Chako?”

  Aithein shrugged his shoulders. “It would lead to his death or mine.”

  ______________________________

  AITHEIN AND DANI TRAVELLED through the village square. Dani could tell that Aithein was curious as to why crowds of Amori stood in line with their weapons. She waited for him to ask questions, waited for him to say something, anything. No words came.

  Aithein remained silent and observant, stoic even. He kept his head down and walked away from the crowd, peering up only on occasion to make sure he wasn’t drawing attention.

  As he walked by the water well, a playful feminine voice called out. “Aithein,” it said. “Up here!”

  Dani looked up to see where the voice came from. She spiraled in ascent through the intersecting rope bridges, all the way up to the village watchtower. She drew a surprised look from Elma, a beautiful Amori girl with wavy hair that was braided in seductive pigtails.

  “Oh, are you his fairy?” she asked. “That’s wonderful!”

  “The Great Faelen Tree requests his audience,” Dani replied, her tone less than inviting.

  Elma disregarded Dani. “Aithein,” she called. “Come up here and talk to me.”

  Aithein wasted no time in running towards Ellia’s house to gain access to the bridges. Dani watched him from afar and realized that corralling him was a lost cause.

  Aithein climbed the ladder on the side of the house and traversed bridges and steps. He made death-defying leaps from one bridge to another in order to create shortcuts. His athleticism impressed Dani. This was not the skittish child she saw moments ago.

  Elma brandished a triumphant look. “Get used to me, fairy. Look at what he does for my attention.”

  Dani stared at Elma’s proud eyes and her know-it-all smirk. “I see. Forgive me, I don’t know your name.”

  “It’s Elma,” she said.

  “Elma. Pretty name,” Dani said cordially.

  “Thank you,” Elma replied.

  “Don’t get used to him, Elma,” Dani warned. “A faelen tree doesn’t summon my kind to babysit Shadean playgrounds. Aithein may not have crossed The Great Barrier, but I guarantee he’s not confined to this Caliphian forest prison. Like you.”

  Elma tried to brush off Dani’s words, but they struck her like an arrow to the breast. As Aithein ran up to them, she donned the mask of a smile. “Did you come all the way up here to see me?”

  “Perhaps,” Aithein replied.

  “Don’t be coy,” she said. “Your actions resonate more than your words.”

  Aithein turned bashful. “I see you’ve met my fairy.”

  “She’s lovely,” Elma replied. “Her ability to protect you has earned the capsheaf of my confidence.”

  Her respectful tone caught Dani by surprise.

  Elma continued, “You are a real man now, Aithein.”

  “Thank you,” Aithein replied. “Why is everyone in a line down there? Are they selling their swords? Are they rationing food? Summer was bountiful.”

  “Never mind all that hustle and bustle,” Elma responded. “You’ve no need to be there. Come.”

  She took Aithein’s hand and led him to the edge of the tower. “Isn’t this view pretty?”

  Aithein looked out into the golden haze that blended with the trees. He snuck a peek down below and let out a deep exhale in agreement. “Xas.”

  “Sometimes I wonder what exists beyond that horizon,” Elma said.

  “A cruel world,” Aithein replied with certainty.

  “But does your heart know that beyond doubt?” Elma asked. “Have you seen it with your own eyes, touched it with your own hands, or breathed it through your own lungs?”

  “Yes,” Aithein responded.

  “How?” Elma asked.

  Aithein looked out tragically at the horizon. “My dreams take me there.”

  Elma felt Aithein’s grip tighten. She caressed it with her thumb till it relaxed. “You leave the forest in your dreams?”

  Aithein nodded shamefully.

  “But if we leave the forest we’ll die,” Elma said.

  “What if The Great Faelen Tree tells me to leave?” Aithein asked.

  Elma looked up at Dani. She realized that Dani was right.

  “I believe that The Great Faelen Tree would never ask you to do something that you couldn’t accomplish,” she said. “I believe Dani was sent to protect you. If the outside world is full of darkness, then she shall be your light from the forest.”

  ______________________________

  A SOOTHING MELODY DRIFTED through the sound of crackling fire and howling wind. The man sat by the fire, playing his legendary xun, one of the keys he used to unlock the secrets of the universe.

  The boy awoke to see a plate of artisan cheese resting on the table in front of him, surrounded by crostini, mustard seeds, dried apricots and cherries, assorted berries, toasted almonds, and a loaf of braided bread that was rich with eggs and butter. Steam rose out of the loaf and released a scent of lemon, nutmeg, and hot raisins.

  The man’s fingers moved wildly, bending the music to his will. His soul mingled in another dimension as he played to his heart’s desire. As the melody descended in tone and pace, he allowed the notes to flourish wholly, until at long last, he played the final one. He noticed the boy had risen and was intently watching him. He felt a little embarrassed that he got carried away in the music, but he shook it off and tried to be hard-arsed again.

  “Where did you learn to play like that?” the boy asked.

  “A girl from my childhood taught me,” he replied. “She made me my first one.” He motioned up to the wooden xun on the mount above the fireplace.

  “Would you teach me to play?” the boy asked.

  “If it pleases you,” the man responded.

  “It does,” the boy said.

  The man gave a stern nod. “Eat. You’ll need it where you’re going.”

  The boy sat up and stared at the meal. He picked up a small knife and cut through a piece of warm, soft cheese with a rind of white mold. He spread it over a crostini and bit into the wonderful contrast of soft crunch and buttery deliciousness.

  The man broke a piece of bread and dipped it into a jar of honey. He scattered some fruits and nuts on his plate and rolled the bread over them until he was satisfied with the variety that stuck to it. He crammed the tasty morsel into his mouth and chewed voraciously, his cheeks stuffed like a pack rat. He noticed the boy staring at him again and paused his chomping.

  The boy laughed, but caught himself. He sniffled in uncertainty, a nervous tick.

  “What?” the man asked with a mouth full of food.

  The boy didn’t want to be impolite. He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s amazing.”

  “I forgot to tell you,” the man responded. “I eat like pig, drink like a corsair, and wail songs like a crooner. This is a house of merriment. If you’re
going to be a part of this family, you’ll have to cast your inhibitions aside.”

  Afterword

  I WOULD LIKE TO dedicate this book to my mom, Katie, who created me and raised me to be the man I am. She always treated me like an individual and talked to me like I was my own person and not her possession. It was her hard work that made this possible, not mine. All I had to do is show up. She paid the inner cost so that I may have the means to write to you.

  To Fallon, my wonderful, amazing editor who turns tin cans into gold, my alchemist.

  To Virginie, whose beautiful art helped bring my tale to life.

  To Steve who put his life on the line for me, who protected me, who always showed up to a fight with a bat or a two-by-four, and who has been my soul brother since the first day of kindergarten. He is the King of Bussy Willows and the man with the eyes of a thousand souls. My oldest memories of freedom are the days when we could leave our dingy on the beach for free, when we spent long summer days into summer nights, cutting through the ocean by ourselves with no lifejackets, smoking stolen cigars, trolling the shores of the islands and fighting the swift currents under the bridge. We caught exotic fish and returned to shore looking like murderers, covered in blood after killing the blues with our Carson Beaters. To Davy and Brandon as well, the other Bay Street Boys who are a part of it now and again. When we roamed the cobblestone streets, fathers knew to lock their daughters inside their homes, for when they didn’t we locked ourselves inside their daughters. Brandon to this day is the only person in the world to urinate on me and live to talk about it. Granted, I was seven and he was five, but it still counts.

  To Gil, the person who most closely shares my likes and dislikes on this whole planet, who shared fantastical adventures with me, who made forts and climbed trees with me. You commanded and conquered with me for hours and hours on end. We created art and had drawing competitions by age five. We played on stage for the first time together. We played on film for the first time together. Most of my imagination cultivation came from us playing together from the time we couldn’t grow hair on our balls right up till now. I still haven’t hit puberty, but I’ll let you know when my beard connects. Our silhouettes will forever be side by side no matter where life takes us, and every time I create something you will have influenced it in some way, shape or form. You are proof that blood is not thicker than water.

  To Anup, who told me that if there were only one thing he wanted to see me do in life, it would be to create this. He pushed me beyond my comfort zone and challenged me to be great. Let it never be said that I didn’t have the best of friends and the most loving family.

  To my dad, Mickey, who once told me that my mom would take credit for everything good I did in life and blame everything bad I did on him. Here’s proof that you are wrong. You taught me to keep my nose clean the first time I got arrested at twelve years of age. I have no criminal record to date, and I pride myself on treating people with respect. I became the man I am today because you lived in the wilderness and let me carve paths all over the island with your machete. You let me walk on frozen lakes and keep stray cats. You took me out on the canoe to explore uncharted bodies of water, keeping us in touch with the ways of our heritage, the Ani’Yun’wiya. You took me on adventures and let me live on Mama Junk, even though you eventually sunk her in the ocean. You sang me songs, painted pictures, and carved wood like a renaissance man. You rowed into town to get me cherry cola when my stomach hurt from all the shit you fed me. You taught me how to cook the best damn steaks in the world. I’m the man I am today because we’ve hit a reef in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight, because when I fell off the dock and into the ocean for the first time at three years of age, and looked up at the fading light through the bubbles as my lungs filled with salt water while I sunk like a stone, it was your hand that reached through the turbid darkness and grabbed me. Despite your best efforts, I always found the alcohol. I was a drunken sailor by age four. I drank your wine and made speeches on the deck in front of your scallywag friends. This boat’s rocking! You told me I was just going to grow old and die anyway, so I might as well do what I love. This book is a result of that. So whether it turns out good or bad, I’m going to partially blame it on you.

  To my Auntie Cindy, who told me that God gave me the tools to accomplish what I need to, but it’s up to me to use them.

  To my Uncle Ric and Auntie Deb, who always told me they believed in me, and who always remind me of how many olives I stick upon my fingers before eating them.

  To Anthony, who sees the world exactly opposite as I do, but who cannot hide the similarities we share inside, proving the genetic bond of our DNA.

  To Michael, whom I love dearly. I pray that the wind always be at his back.

  To Anna-Marie, who always had a place for me, who created a safety net to catch me whenever the world chooses to knock me off my path.

  To King Richard, my pragmatic polar opposite yet my voice of reason, and his wonderful family that is an extension of my own.

  To Aaron, who craved with me, who spent countless nights doing work till the witching hour while we wrote the pages of our future.

  To Paddy MacNasty, I hope you find peace wherever life takes you, and know that I love you and wouldn’t be the man I am today without you. Like a boss.

  To Nick, the youngest victim of The Station Fire. You were my friend long before that. The last thing you told to me in the bathroom of the All Children’s Theater in Providence was that I was the best actor you had ever seen, and that there was no doubt in your mind that I would become famous. My goal was never to be famous, but to help ignite a renaissance. I lived on the river and remembered the warm summer nights of Waterfire. The Florentine excitement brought me to another world. I’ll never forget you playing music and singing for me during rehearsals for our plays in the city, and every time I hear “Good Riddance” I see you right by my side, as though you have been with me all along. So make the best of this test and don’t ask why. It’s not a question but a lesson learned in time. It’s something unpredictable but in the end it’s right. I hope you had the time of your life.

  To JoAnn, who cast me in my first play, and told people I was the next De Niro.

  To Shigeru, who gave me the skeleton of my favorite story of all time, even though you ripped off a lot of other stories to get it made. As I grew older, I felt undernourished in my craving for mature fantasies that I could relate to, but they never came. If it weren’t for my generation being underserved in artwork and stories, and everything that’s popular being made by the lowest common denominator of society, I never would have had the motivation to write this. It gave me great inspiration to explore your games and for that I am eternally grateful.

  To John, who taught me that I don’t throw my life away going inside, that I don’t throw my time away sitting still, that there will come a time when time goes out the window. You taught me to let the pretend take over and that season be the first. You told me you didn’t mean to be an asshole, and that you were busy, but you still made time for me and it was all good. It’s still on my bucket list to play a live show with you and the other guys someday.

  To Gerald, who taught me to have the courage to be myself, to let the music hit my heart, and to choose renaissance over ruin, that I may never die wondering whether I was the man I wanted to be.

  To Chris, who taught me to see the world anew, to listen to everyone but to follow no one, and to walk my own path.

  To Patrick, who was the first person to get me to read more than a four hundred-page novel. There are some tributes to you in this book that I am sure you and your fans will recognize.

  And lastly, to You. Thank you for spending your hard-earned money, and time, to take a chance on reading my book. This has been one of the greatest honors for me and I hope to connect with you some day, even if it’s only for coffee or some other brush in the course of life, even if it’s only through my work.

  Till next time, transcend.<
br />
  Love,

  Dylan