The Wandering Storyteller

About This Author

A changeling spirit,
constantly evolving,
revolving around an inner core,
spinning forth legend and lore,
stories and lives
as I come to grips
with who and what I am,
have been and may be.
I am a phoenix:
rising ever above and beyond!

The Wandering Storyteller

"And thus Prince Ramius returned the Goblet of Cyrianon to the King of Alyndoria. He had completed his quest and would now receive the dubious honor of the hand of Princess Kelly Kathryn Anne Miranda Thistleweaver in marriage. Of course, what happened next and whether or not they lived happily ever after is another story for another time."

With these words, Fyndorian, a young wandering storyteller stood up and gave a quick bow to the watching crowd as all but one man in the back applauded him. Fyndorian walked over to the aleseller in the square while his young assistant happily collected the coins thrown to the ground by the appreciative audience.

"Tis on me, my good lad," said the aleseller to the delicate young man who had enthralled the marketplace crowd for the past quarter hour. Since he'd first see them enter the square, the young man and small boy had kept the aleseller's interest.

This 'un had been a different sort from them what occasionally wandered through the square, Dagan thought to himself. There was an air about this Fyndorian that bespoke of almost the gentry, a turn of phrase that seemed far above an unschooled man and a gentleness about the eyes that belied one who had to scramble for his coin. There was something about those eyes. . . pale green, not the usual ale-brown of the area. . . bright, inquisitive and the lashes of a maid. Dagan shook his head. Fyndorian released his goblet from his belt and handed it to the aleseller to fill with the good earthy ale of the valley.

Handing the carved goblet back to the young man, Dagan continued, "For 'tis but a small payment for so fine a storytelling as we've just had."

Fyndorian smiled his thanks and turned to see his assistant run up with a healthy fistful of coins.

"Does we got enuffin' to eats this night? Does we?" D'orn, his apprentice of sorts emptied his hoard into a small leather pouch and handed it to Fyndorian. Fyn glanced at the scant dozen coins before closing the pouch and tucking it in his rucksack.

"I think we can safely say that tonight we shall have a feast and perchance slumber well someplace dry and out of the weather." Fyndorian drained his goblet and rehung it on his belt. Another customer, a hard looking, thin man pushed his way up to the aleseller and demanded ale.

"Come, lad. We had best be seeking our shelter for this night and soon, by the looks of yon sky."

He and D'orn were perhaps halfway across the square when Fyndorian felt a tug at his sleeve and turned to see two children, twins by the looks of them, standing there.

"Our pa wonders ifn he couldst have a word with ye," said the one. "That's him there by ta well," echoed the other. Having spit out their message, the two girls ran back to their father and hid behind him, peering out as the storyteller came over to the well.

Their father was a big man, roughly dressed but still and all, his clothes had a look of quality about them. He was tall, but bent over as he supported his bulk on a stout staff. Shaggy brown hair, badly in need of his upcoming spring bath, hung over sharp eyes and a thinish, tired face.

"Good morrow Sar. Me thinks that the Master'd be after having you in to tell some more of yourn stories if ye be wantin' a warm meal in your belly and a dry space by ta fire this night. We be headin' o' to the Keep as soon as market be done ifn you' want ta follow us."

Fydorian looked down at D'orn and saw the hopeful smile cross his freckled and none too clean face. "The keep, you say, kind sir. Might that be the castle we saw high on the hill east o town?"

"Aye, that'd be it, Sar. Home of the Master, Lord Jamison Hawke of Knightsbridge hisself, just back from the skirmishes and none to happy these days what with the drought and the new high taxes n all. He's had none too good a time of it, if ye don't mind me sayin' so, talkin' out o turn like. But methinks the Master could use a bit of yourn storytellin' and tha' be a fact I'm athinkin'. What with the missus dyin' three springs back, been a long time since there be laughter in ta place. You go on up to th'Keep, Sar and tells them at the gate the old Tom sent ya. They'll be after openin' the gate to ya."

After telling the man that he would attend his master at the keep that evening, Fyndorian and D"orn made their way slowly out of town. They stopped where the riverbank curled away from the beaten track and followed a worn and dusty path down to the river's edge.

"Go down around the bend, lad and have yourself a fine swim. Wash the past hand of days dust from your face in the process. Tonight we be entertaining the gentry and we don't want to come across as a pair o ragamuffins now do we? "

"Aye, Fyn. I knows. You wants yur p'ivacy, same as you allus do." Shaking his head, D'orn splashed on down around the bend in the river and was soon happily splashing in the cool water. After his initial exuberance faded, D'orn climbed on to a rock in the middle of the river and let the afternoon sun dry both him and his clothes. A Keep tonight, he grinned to himself. Good food even ifn they was way below tha salt. Would be better than some they's had of late.

Course, ever since Fyndorian had pulled him out of the sewer back in Almsgate, he'd been eatin' right good. Still, he couldn't quite figure out his new friend. Fyndorian was like no one else he'd ever known before. Though he didn't know for sure, he figured Fyn to be old enough to shave but he didn't seem to need to. That and he were so fussy about anyone seeing him. D'orn now, on the other hand had no such problems whether it be bathin' or peeing. It was natural like, all mens was made the same, more or less, now weren't they?

Still and all, his lot in life had changed for the better and Fyn was brother, father and teacher all in one. D'orn smiled. And it was fun: getting to listen to Fyn spin his tales to the crowds and fun to watch as Fyn would draws the crowds in and keep 'em hangin' on every word. And then yesterday had given him, D'orn a whole copper penny of his own! No one had ever done that before. Smiling contentedly to himself, D'orn fell fast asleep on the rock in the middle of the river.

Back up abound the bend, Fyndorian slowly removed his boots, leggings and tunic, dusting and folding them neatly on a nearby log before sliding into the chest deep waters of an eddying pool. Scrubbing his face with a handful of sand, he grinned. Happy to be clean, have money in his pouch and the promise of a warm place to sleep. Life was good.

Funny how things change. Once upon a time to have wealth, good clothes and family. Now to be little more than a beggar, telling tales of far off imaginings in exchange for a handful of coins or a meal. Still and all, far better than what his father had planned. . . marriage to that. . . that-

Fyndorian tore his mind away from the trail his memory was taking. He'd escaped that life. Not that this one was an easy one. And now he had D'orn. But he couldn't leave the little scamp stuck in the grating of the sewer. He couldn't let him be caught and hung for stealing an apple because he was hungry. Who'd only filched the wallet so as he could eat. Who'd likely be . . .well, that wasn't going to happen. Not if he could help it. There was more to that little freckle faced imp than met the eye and he was determined to find it. Hangin' was no good end to anyone, let alone a ten year old boy.

Fyn shook his head and waggled his fingers through his hair. He dressed in a white tunic, jerkin and leggin' which, while not exactly clean, were cleaner that what he had on. Whistling for D'orn, he belted his tunic with his goblet, spoon and fork hanging from it and tucked his short dagger plainly in sight. Not enough of a weapon to be threatening, but enough to defend oneself if necessary. D'orn's head popped up over the edge of the riverbank followed by the rest of him in now dripping wet clothes. Fyn tossed him a cleaner tunic and leggings and wrung out the others before adding them to the pack.

"You ready, Fyn? Looks to be rainin' afore too long." Fyn and D'orn set off down the road that lead up to the keep on the hill. The road was rutted and many a wagon had probably lost a wheel to its rocky path. Fyndorian could tell that D"orn was excited about their destination as he kept up a nonstop prattle of questions and thoughts along their way.

"What story be you tellin' tonight? The one about the princess agin? Or the emerald dragon? Mebe the one about the pirate king or the lady Goddess one? I likes that one. She be after soundin' likes the bestest lady in the whole world that one do! Is there really such a lady, Fyn? Or maybes you tell the one about the Lady Kira who runs away from getting married and travels in disguise? That be one o' my favrites that one bes. Tryin' to imagine anyone being other than their selves. I couldn't do it. Could you, Fyn? I means like for a long time? That'd too way awful hard, I be thinkin'. You eat too many apples earlier, Fyn? You sure do gots a funny looks on yourn face!"

A sudden crack of thunder forstalled any answer Fyndorian might have made and they both scurried up the last hill to the keep. In the quickly darkening afternoon, neither was aware of the stranger from the marketplace following a quarter of a mile or so behind, who'd been following them since he'd gulped down his ale after a chat with the aleseller.

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