Martin C Sharlow - Storytellers (Storytellers Saga)

by

Martin C Sharlow

Storytellers

Copyright 2010 by Martin C Sharlow

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Candles flickered in the breeze generated by the passing of celebrants in the small chapel. It had been six months since the small region simply termed "beyond the waste" had reason to celebrate a coupling of their sons and daughters.
The villagers dressed in bright greens and reds for the celebration, as was the tradition passed down to them by their ancestors, who had settled here so long ago.
Brighton stood near an ornate window, staring at the smoke studded hills that lined the southern boundary of the village, dressed in his finest wear. Ancient Black...the sort that glimmered in the sunlight. Only his mother, Taile, knew how to create the fabric he now wore. The art was a tradition passed down from mother to daughter for generations.
Eight years ago, his mother and father prepared for their first child. All the portents had pointed toward a girl; it was a good omen, and ideal for passing on his mother's talents. However, a girl was not to be. He could only imagine his parents' disappointment when he came out a boy. A firstborn boy was a bad omen. The very same night of his birth, his father died. Drunken, Brighton's father had fallen off a horse and broken his neck.
This wedding and coupling was chosen that very day as a chance to fix what happened eight years ago.
"Brighton," his mother asked, "what are you doing over there?"
He turned from his vigil and looked at his mother. A smile broke across her features as she looked into her son's eyes, and she motioned for him to come to her, arms held wide.
Pausing, he looked one last time at what he suspected were campfires, then slowly walked to his mother. Her smile faded as she noted his lack of enthusiasm, and her gaze briefly flickered toward the small black book he kept tightly gripped in hand.
"Bright, must you be so glum?"
"Are you still marrying Narmac today, Mother?"
"You know I am."
"Then, yes."
She paused, clearly looking her young son over.
"Very well, Bright, please keep from getting underfoot. You know I love you, but this coupling is necessary for our family's heritage. You know that!"

Brighton turned away without another word, and headed for a nearby bench. A large window dominated the wall behind it, allowing Bright the chance to look out at the smoke plumes once more, before he sat with his back to them.
As he opened his book and began reading, he could still see his mother over the top of it, watching him for a few moments. Not long after he began, she gave a shake of her head and walked out of his field of vision. Hours passed as the boy sat and read. From time to time, he would pause, and glance over his shoulder to stare out at the fires.
Now hungry, he headed into the reception hall to look for food. The expansive hall was yet empty, and illuminated by light streaming from the windows mounted near to the ceiling. Green and red ribbons were strung everywhere, evidence of the recently finished preparations. Six large tables sat in the hall filled with breads and sweets waiting to be devoured.
Brighton helped himself to a tray of sweet bread, and sat down in a nearby chair. White powder stuck to his lips and fingers as he ate, and he began to read his book again. A cough disturbed the silence of the hall before he consumed more than three.
An old man stood at the entrance of the hall, watching him read. Bells jingled from his braided, snowy beard, as it swayed near the floor with his every step into the hall.
"So Bright, reading to become a sage are we?"
"Maybe, but I haven't been tested for the gift yet."
"Ah," the old man put his hands into his flowing, shiny yellow robes. "next year you're of age to be tested, I believe."
Nodding, his eyes went back to his open book.
"What story are you reading there?"
Brighton slammed the cover shut, and jerked it away from the outstretching aged hand. Clouds passed overhead outside, and dimmed the hall to almost twilight.
"Eleman, I found it! You cannot have it!"
A chilling breeze blew into the hall, causing the bells in the old man's beard to chime. Eleman hesitated, before pulling his hand back. Once safely in the warm folds of his robe, the man hummed a strange tune. Light shimmered around his old form, then separated from him and formed into a glowing man with a torch.
Eleman nodded to the glowing figure. "Go and light the brazier and sconces."
Brighton watched in rapt fascination, as the man used his torch to do as he was told.
"Is that a story, Eleman?"
"Yes, son, it's one of many I possess."
"It must be great to summon stories and do all kinds of magic." Brighton sighed.
"Story telling is an art, son. There's no magic involved."
"But he just appeared. Right out of light."
"It is nothing but a talent that some can do, Bright. It's no more magic than what your mother does to make the black cloth you wear."
Brighton's face twisted into a sneer with the reminder of why they were there. With his soured mood, the fleeting wonder at witnessing the storyteller's magic vanished.
"Do not worry, son. I have enough books, I would never steal your story there."
"It's not that, Eleman..." Brighton frowned, "I wish I could conjure a bear and have it eat Narmac."
"Now, now, Brighton. Storytelling cannot be used to hurt your future father. It can hurt no human."
"But, why?"
"Because stories always have a happy ending."
"Not this one. This one is different." Brighton insisted, lifting the black book to emphasize his words.
"That's not possible, my boy. All stories, by decree, must educate and edify. Here, let me see that." Eleman again reached to take the book from the boy's hand.
"You, old man, come here!" A sharp voice from the hall's entrance interrupted Eleman's attempted inspection.
A large man dressed in war leather stood in the doorway. His great hands held an impossibly large wooden crossbow.
"And who are you?"
"Your death, if you and the boy don't move over here in a hurry."
"Very well, there is no need for threats. Come, Bright."
The two of them moved into the adjoining hallway.

"May I ask what is going on here?" Eleman seemed unconcerned by the proximity of the crossbow.
"You will find out soon enough old man." The man sent Eleman stumbling forward a few steps with a rough prod of the tip of his crossbow.
As the chapel neared, the sound of weeping and the echoes of cruel laughter could be heard. A man's form sprawled through the middle of the doorway, and a wooden bolt jutted from his throat.
Beamy! Brighton thought with a frown.
"Is this your intention, then? Eleman asked, "To murder us?"
"Just get in there, old man."
The Main Chapel looked as if the storm outside had hit it. Green and red streamers were flung all around, some lying across the pews and chairs which were thrown about haphazard. Here and there a body laid with a crossbow bolt protruding from it. Several men in similar war leather stood about the room with crossbows pointing menacingly at the celebrants. Brighton scanned the room for his mother, and found her near the ceremonial stage cradling Narmac's unmoving head.
A guilty smile crept across his features. At least something good came out of this.
"Gentlemen," Eleman spoke up."there is no need for violence. I'm sure we can give you whatever you need."
"You think so, old man?" a particularly ugly, huge man answered. "I think we're already taking what we want."
Laughter burst from the surrounding invaders. Several of them raised their weapons above their heads and shook them.
"Unless you know where the town treasure is located?"
Eleman waved his hands downward in a calming motion."We have food and livestock. I'm sure we have something you require. But, if you're referring to gold, then we have none."