by Alex Aguilar
“You’re right. What am I saying? All kale’s rotten.”
John chuckled. For once, he was happy to be where he was. He’d been blinded his whole life by a sense of what was right or wrong, simply because everyone else would tell him so. He felt almost invigorated by being able to decide for himself. Invigorated and frightened, all at once.
“Still tense about that dragon?” Syrena asked him.
“Not to worry, mate,” Hudson patted him in the back. “We’ve got a dragon of our own.” He shot Syrena a wink, and she grinned coquettishly in return.
“Hang on, what was that?” asked a nervous voice behind them. Young Cedric’s face had gone suddenly pale. “D-Did I just hear you say…?”
“Pay ‘em no mind, toothpick,” Gwyn comforted the lad. “Their heads must be fried from the heat.”
“Believe what you want,” Syrena said to the woman. “We know what we saw…”
“Horse shit,” Gwyn snapped somewhat coldly at the witch. “D’you take me for a halfwit?”
“This one’s got quite a tongue,” Hudson mumbled to John, just loud enough that woman most certainly overheard.
“Dragons aren’t real,” Gwyn scoffed, hoping to ease Cedric’s nerves. “What’s next, then? Ye gonna tell us the fucker talked, too?”
Cedric wiped his dampened hands on his trousers. “I suppose you’re right,” he laughed nervously. “There’s no such thing… There can’t be…”
“Oh but there can,” Hudson grinned. “Believe me, little mate, they’re as real as pixies.”
“Stop fillin’ his head with shit!” Gwyn interjected. “Pixies ain’t real either. This here’s the real world. Not a bloody fairytale.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Hudson rolled his eyes. “Where’d this one come from, anyway?”
“This one’s got a name!” the woman glared at him. “It’s Gwyn!”
“I don’t care.”
Syrena, daring as she was becoming, took a quick glance at their surroundings, making sure there were no horses nearby that were outside of their company. And then, with a devious grin, she lifted the lid of her rucksack.
Like a young bird taking flight for the first time, Sivvy stretched her wings and floated gently out, keeping a close distance with the witch as if she were her guardian. Instantly, the whispering around them seized. Every pair of eyes was drawn towards Sivvy’s glow, dashingly radiant even under the sunlight.
Gwyn’s jaw dropped. “What in all hells…?”
The thief and the witch glanced at one another, both of them with subtle mischief in their eyes.
“Gwyn, was it?” Hudson said with a sly grin. “My apologies, you’re absolutely right. There are no such things as fairytales…”
John Huxley rode in silence, feeling about as jovial as a child.
He stared ahead into the distance. He could almost see the blue hue of the Draeric Sea lined along the horizon, their last stop before they sailed overseas to Drahkmere. He breathed deeply, his mind reeling with a million thoughts about the journey ahead. There was no way to know what fate had in store for them. Surrounded by his new friends and acquaintances, there was only one thing the young farmer was certain of.
If he somehow made it back to Elbon in one piece, this was going to make for one hell of a story…
Afterword
I finish my tale, as I often do, with a celebratory drink. But when I bring the bottle up to my lips, I realize it’s empty. When did that happen, I wonder? I grab another bottle, yank the cork out with my few good teeth, and spit it out into a corner.
One last gulp and I’m done, I tell myself, but I know it’s bollocks. What kind of example am I setting for these children? A good one, I hope. At least the little rats seem mildly entertained.
Or, at least, they did. Now they’re just sitting there in silence, staring at me enthusiastically as if expecting more. It’s quite remarkable, the way a child’s mind works. You can sit on your arse for hours telling them a story and yet it’s never really enough for them, the little rats.
“What?” I finally grunt.
They glance at each other confusedly. It feels like they’ve been sitting there an eternity and yet they’re wide awake and eager for more, it baffles me. Hells, they’ve eaten twice since they got here. It must be close to midnight by now. Has it ever occurred to them that an elderly man needs a break from time to time?
The elf boy, the pluckiest of the three, decides to speak first. “So… then he died?”
I narrow my eyes in confusion. “Then who died?”
“The Guardian!”
“You said you’d tell us how he died,” the human boy adds. He’s always been the louder, more annoying one of the lot. Always trying to make his opinion known, as if it mattered more than everyone else’s. “I think he’s brilliant! Did you know he was the one who stole the Amulet of Varisvaara?”
The elf boy straightens himself up eagerly. “Was it long after that? When he got eaten, I mean?”
“You mean decapitated.”
“Don’t be stupid. Everyone knows he was eaten.”
“Mister Barlowe, tell him the Guardian was publicly executed!”
For gods’ sake, I must stop these two before they start with this again.
“Shut up, the both of you!” I exclaim, rubbing my temples gently and rolling my weary aggravated eyes.
“Was it Nyx that ate ‘im?!”
“Don’t be stupid,” says the red-headed girl, the more curious one. Wynnifred.
I don’t know why her name’s the only one I remember. I suppose it’s because she’s the only one that truly thinks about the stories. Not like the other two, who just sit and listen for the thrill, so that they can hear about who was killed by whom and in what way. What’s the point of a story if you overlook the lesson entirely?
“There’s no way!” Wynnifred goes on. “Nyx was only a dragon until th-”
“Don’t spoil it!” the elf boy interjects.
“Bloody fuckin’ hells,” I sigh, not because I’m actually annoyed but because someone has to stand up for the poor girl when the other two fools decide to corner her. “The nerve of you two! I just spent the whole bloody day tellin’ you the story of how it all began, but all you care about is how the bloke died?!”
“I bet it was brilliant!” the elf boy adds eagerly. “I bet he died with a smile…”
“Who was the Guardian, anyway?” asks Wynnifred. “Was it Viktor?”
“Were you even listening?” her cousin snaps at her. “It was obviously John!”
“But, Mister Barlowe never said so!”
“He didn’t have to, stupid.”
“All you care about is the bloody Lady Knight!” the elf boy spits.
Well of course she does, I think to myself. The Lady Knight’s braver than any of you, you dumb pests.
“Well she did ride a fire-breathin’ dragon!” Wynnifred argues. “Did the Guardian ever do that?”
Good. Very good. Stick up for yourself, ginger. Don’t let them have the last word.
“By the way, whatever happened to House Clark?” the elf boy asks.
Finally, a question worth answering.
“Well, some say th-”
“I heard they all died!” the human boy interrupts again. “That’s why there hasn’t been a Clark in Gravenstone for decades!”
I fight the urge to glare at the boy. He’s too young to know any better and it’s not his fault his attention span is rubbish. “All right,” I groan. “I think you’ve asked enough questions for the night.”
“But Mister Barlowe!”
“I said enough! Piss off, the lot of you!”
Without protesting any further, the children all rise to their feet and start gathering their belongings, all the while continuing with their childish arguments. I don’t particularly like yelling at them, but it’s the only way to get them to scram. Once they were here ‘til dawn, and I had to get rid of them by leaving the house myself.
&nbs
p; “You hardly spoke of Queen Magdalena,” Wynnifred complains.
I allow it, only because it’s her…
“That’s because hers is the second half of the story,” I say.
She smiles. “Will you tell us next week, then?”
I smile back. “Sure, ginger. But do me a favor and open that window for me. You lot have been loungin’ about so long, it’s starting to reek in here.”
“It smelled this way when we got here,” says the elf boy. “By the way, I need a piss pot.”
“You have to go out back, lad.”
The elf boy leaves the room as obedient little Wynnifred opens the window. Just as I expect, it’s pitch black out there. Based on where the moon sits, I’d say it’s well past midnight. How deceiving, those candles can be. But it’s not the first time we lose track of time. I’m well aware that I’ve the tendency to lose myself in my stories. I only wonder why these little buggers’ parents don’t seem to care much where their children wander off to.
*Thump thump thump!*
Ah, there it is… A heavy fist starts hammering dramatically at my door. The door shakes, rumbles, gathers clouds of dust along the edges… A shrill voice starts shouting from the outside and both Wynnifred and… the boy one, her cousin, they freeze as if they just heard a hungry lion’s roar.
“Open up!” the woman shouts. “I know you’re in there!”
Good gods, woman. There are people sleeping… not here, perhaps, but have some decency still…
“It’s mum,” Wynnifred says, wide-eyed and nervous.
“Oh shit…” the boy one says.
“Oi! Language!” I bark at him.
“But I learned it from you.”
“Well un-learn it!”
The girl runs to the door and opens it. In walks a full-figured woman in a blue housedress and an apron, looking about as angry as… well me, on a bad day. Immediately she starts to scream and I wonder if my voice is as agonizing as hers when I raise it.
“Where’ve you been, girl?! I’ve looked everywhere! Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?!”
Not very, I imagine. They’ve been here for fifteen hours…
“I-I’m sorry, mum,” Wynnifred confesses timidly. “W-We only came by for a story.”
“In the dead of night?!”
“It was morning when we got here,” the boy says from afar.
“Don’t think I forgot about you, boy!” the angry woman raises a finger at him. “I’m havin’ a word with your mother!”
Finally she glances at me. I say nothing, only work on my second bottle and stare back at her. I wonder if the woman knows how well she fits into the image of the hackneyed villain in a children’s story, what with that mole above her lip and that sharp glare the likes of which any child would cringe and cower away from. Anyway, I figure I should put the bottle down and say something. Staring for so long’s not exactly proper.
“Good evening, Hilda,” I give her a nod.
“Piss off, you!”
All right, well… I tried…
“How many times have I told you?!” Hilda scolds the girl. “I don’t want you wanderin’ off without tellin’ me where you’re goin’!”
“But we weren’t doing anything wrong,” the boy argues.
“We’re fine, mum.”
“Shut it, girl!”
“They’re fine, Hilda,” I intercede again, for the children’s sake. “They just wanted a story.”
“I said piss off!” she raises a finger at me now. I try not to let the dirt beneath her fingernails distract me, but I’m a sucker for trivial particulars. “I’ve nothing to say to you!” she shouts, despite the fact that I’m sitting just three feet away. “Filling children’s heads with all that rubbish… You should be ashamed…”
Don’t argue, Jack… Stay out of it…
“Dim-witted queens and knight liberators?” she scoffs. “Utter nonsense!”
Don’t argue… Do not arg-
“It’s not nonsense if it’s true,” I mumble.
Fuck…
“Are you barkin’ mad?!” she raises her voice further, so loud it’s no wonder the neighbors hate me. “Their heads are filled with rubbish as it is, they don’t need any more of it from you!”
“Hilda…”
“They’re children!”
“Yes! Yes, they are!” I rise suddenly to my feet and match the volume of her voice. It scares her. “They’re children who, before you know it, will grow into adults! D’you want them to grow old thinking life’s a fairytale? They deserve to know the truth…”
She’s flabbergasted, because no one had ever spoken to her in such a tone…
I stand my ground, because it’s about time someone did…
Though I admitted to myself that I often got carried away with my stories, it never occurred to me to soften the blow. I told the stories the way they happened. I told them countless times, I hardly needed the notes anymore, hadn’t for the last two decades. I used to tell the stories to grown folk who wanted to hear the truth, rather than the nonsense they were told by palace ministers.
What fault did I have that the only audience I had left, after all these years, were children?
And what fault did they have to be the only ones in this vile town with an actual mind of their own?
“Listen ‘ere, you scum,” she steps forward, that damn finger of hers aimed right at me again.
I expected a lecture or a couple of insults at best. Instead she freezes when the back door creaks open. The elf boy walks in as casually as always, drying his blue hands with an old rag. The woman’s face goes from puzzled to enraged within seconds, and the elf boy’s suddenly about as vulnerable as a pup.
“We’re leaving,” the woman says coldly. She grabs Wynnifred and the boy by the wrists and drags them towards the door.
“But Aunt Hilda, w-”
“I said we’re leaving. Now!”
“What did we do?” Wynnifred asks.
“I told you countless times, girl!” Hilda hisses at her child. “I don’t want you messin’ about with their kind!”
I bite my tongue and make a fist. I know that it’s not my place to tell others what to think, but it’s so hard to resist when all I want to do is throw my bottle at her and call her a sheep.
“But he’s our friend!” Wynnifred says, the poor innocent thing.
How is it that such a youngin’ has more sense than her own mother, I wonder?
“No daughter of mine is gonna be friends with a rabbit!” Hilda shouts. “They’ve got their side of the village, we’ve got ours. End of story!”
“But mum!”
“END… OF… STORY!”
They leave the room.
The elf boy’s no longer smiling, his childlike joy is replaced by a wave of melancholy. He’s too young for this nonsense, he deserves so much better. In an uncomfortable trance, he starts to gather his things in silence.
Damn it all to hells…
“Hey,” I stop him before he leaves.
He looks at me with those faultless little eyes of his, so naïve and innocent. What kind of person has the gall to place such blame on a child that never asked to be born?
“Don’t pay it any mind, you hear?” I tell him.
He shoots me a half-smile, and a forced one at that.
“Ignorance,” I say to him. “It’s the one thing we can’t get rid of… It’s not your fault. You understand?”
He nods. But the scar remains, I can tell. “See you next week, Mister Barlowe…”
“See you next week, little lad…”
He leaves with a frown on his face.
I feel the rage sweltering in my chest, killing me slowly.
How dare she? The gutless bitch…
He’s just a kid… but she can’t see that through her willful ignorance. He comes here for an escape, to smile for a little while and not have to worry about the shithole of a nation that we live in. And she barges into my home and reminds him? T
he fucking gall…
I reach for my bottle again. It’s the only thing that’ll help me pass the time, the only thing that’ll keep me going until next week, until the little ones come back for another story.
For me, there’s no routine. There’s hardly any sense of time, every day’s about the same. Except for the seventh day, the only day I genuinely look forward to, the day I get to tell my stories just like the good old days.
On the seventh day, I get to see those smiles, full of absolute wonder and joy. The smiles that serve as proof that we can be better, and that someday perhaps we will be better. I feel the dread in my chest suddenly, knowing I may never live to see that day, knowing that one day my eyes and lips will shut forever.
But if I can spend the little time I have left making sure that those children are better than we were, I’ll damn well do it. And there isn’t a single loud-mouthed soul out there that can stop me.
A sudden creak makes me drop the bottle…
Wynnifred, the little rebel, enters my home one last time.
“What’re you doing back here, girl?”
“I forgot to give you something,” she digs through her rucksack. I expect a trinket of some sort, an anklet or necklace, some crafty little thing that children often make to pass the time.
“You best go now, before your mother gets b-”
I feel a peculiar warmth overtake me suddenly… For once, the liquor fails to keep me numb… There she stands, the curious little thing, holding a crumpled meat pie wrapped in a handkerchief. She hands it to me eagerly.
“Mum always says that if we don’t eat well, we’ll starve,” she mutters innocently. “I don’t want you to starve…”
I take the meat pie. It crumbles further in my hand.
I clear my aching throat as a strange feeling hits my chest.
“Thank you, ginger…”
She smiles again. “My name’s Wynnifred.”
I nod, unable to smile back. “I know…”
Her mother shouts from the outside and she darts out of the room.
I stare at the old meat pie as if I was holding treasure in my hands.
I never considered myself to be a friendly person. I hardly ever leave the house these days, in fact. Strange, what isolation could do to someone. Often I felt I was the embodiment of hopelessness. But to see such an innocent thing care so much for an old bastard like me… It’s unnerving and heartwarming all at once…