“My tale - is merely a story about myself.” He shrugged and the brief hint of a sad expression crossed his green eyes.
“It is a true story mind you – for, it is not one that I would tell if it was untrue.” He paused for a chime, pulling his jacket closer to his body. Placing both elbows on the table, he allowed his head to fall slightly and then tucked both hands under his chin. His eyes wandered around the table – first to Khal, followed by Fade, Celina and, finally, Jischa.
“It is a tale of a boy and his family. It is a tale of obsession, anger, betrayal and love. And it is a tale for which there is no end. But there is a beginning. Oh, yes, there is a beginning.”
| Father, Mother and Son I was only seven years old when I went with my father on his first dig. I was still grieving after my mother’s death: she had died of some illness that had spread rapidly throughout the city. Most of those who caught it recovered after a few days but a few were more unfortunate. I still visited her grave every morning - perhaps my father thought that taking me out of the city would disrupt this routine and help me come to terms with our loss. Emilio, my father, had come into possession of an old map that purported to show the location of some ancient ruins. I begged him to take me along, for he was always telling me of his adventures and the fine treasures that he had found. I was too young to question why we were so poor, if, as my father claimed, he had made such wonderful discoveries. I can still recall that day. The sun was shining brightly and there was the trace of a gentle breeze in the air and the hint of exotic perfume. The smell lingers deep within my mind to this very day, yet I have never managed to locate the source of the perfume. I have dreamt that it is the odour of some rare flower or the scent of some fine lady. One day I will search for it – or perhaps find some herbalist or apothecary who knows of such things. In any event, it took the two of us three days and nights to reach our destination. As we journeyed, my father told me many tales of great treasures, ancient peoples and mighty weapons. He sang raucous songs that were a little risqué for a young boy’s ears. I was shocked and my face burned scarlet but my father just winked and whispered that I wasn’t to tell anyone. I felt grown-up, as if I was the adult that every young boy aspires to be. We were two stalwart adventurers - Guido and Emilio – together on a famous expedition to find the jewels and gold left behind by those long dead. At least, that was what I imagined. You must remember that I was young and innocent at that time. Yes, even I once lacked the cynicism and weariness that so many of us cloak ourselves in as we grow older. There was only one incident on the journey that marred my joyful mood. As we were setting up camp one night, I saw a beautiful red flower standing tall a few paces away from our tent. My father had warned me not to pick such flowers but I could not resist its beauty. I ran over and plucked it from the ground. I brought it to my father, offering it as a gift. When my father saw the flower, his face contorted in fury. He grabbed it, tore it into pieces and threw it on the fire. “That flower is bad luck, boy. You shouldn’t have picked it.” He raised his hand as if to strike me but then stopped. Lowering his hand he ruffled my hair but said nothing. When we reached the location marked on the map, we found a muddy clearing on the edge of a small, dirty stream. There was no sign of any ruined buildings or anything to suggest that there had ever been anyone living in the vicinity. My father stalked around the clearing, tearing at a few bushes and examining any small bump in the ground that might signify something. I could see him growing angrier and angrier. I stayed at the side of the clearing, not wishing to interrupt, for I had never seen my father in such a mood. He grabbed a pick from his rucksack and began digging randomly around the clearing, hacking at the ground. He grunted and screamed. And then, as he drew close to the stream, he stopped. There was a wild look in his eyes. He stalked back over to where I sat, grabbed me by my ear and dragged me over to the stream. I shouted and struggled but to no avail. My father was too strong. “Look,” he screamed. There by the side of the stream was the same red flower I had picked earlier in the journey, standing tall and proud. “It is your fault. You have brought this bad luck on us. Curse you! Curse you!” He slapped me hard across my face and I fell to the ground senseless. When I awoke, I was still by the stream, propped up on the side of a smooth rock. It was cold and gloomy. There was no sign of my father. All I could hear was a quite rustle in the undergrowth. I cried out but there was no reply, merely the continual sound of leaves being moved aside by whatever lurked in the shadows of the forest. I thought I glimpsed two amber eyes staring at me. It was probably an illusion but I was scared – I was seven, alone, bruised and very scared. Without a thought I ran as hard as I could away from the stream, unaware that my father had fallen asleep on the far side of the clearing in a drunken stupor. I careered through the undergrowth, scraping and scratching my limbs. How long I ran for, I have no idea. By the time I stopped, the light had faded and I was totally lost, deep in the woods with trees and bushes pressing in on me from every side. I can recall feeling very small, insignificant and desperate and I collapsed down on my knees. I wailed once again for my father, cursing him as he had cursed me. And, I cried out to my mother – asking why she had left me, forsaken me so that that I might end up in such a dark and desolate place. I must have screamed and cursed for a long time before I dimly made out a faint glow in the dark. At first I thought it might be the amber eyes of my imagined predator – but it was a white glow, not orange. In the absence of any alternative, I slowly crept in the direction of the glow. As I neared its source, I saw that the glow appeared to be emanating from a flower that stood alone in the dark. The shape was similar to the red flower that my father had thrown into the fire. Perhaps my head was still muzzy from the blow it had received but as I neared the flower, it appeared to move away. I continued to creep towards it but never managed to close in. Intrigued, I picked up my pace and ran forwards but it was to no avail. I never closed the distance. Yet, still I moved towards it – indeed, I sensed it calling to me, willing me to follow. And, I did – through bushes, brambles, broken tree stumps and boggy pits. Whether it was to my ruin or my salvation, I did not care. After some time, a flicker of light emerged from the sky – the day was beginning to dawn. The flower appeared to pick up pace, dragging me forwards as if with some invisible strand that was tied around my body. I staggered ahead, exhausted and tired – tears streaming down my face. As the sun finally rose, the flower vanished and I found myself lying on a well-worn trail. Looking round, I felt a flicker of recognition. It was a place I knew well, scarcely more than half a bell to the city gates. Somehow, I had covered a three days journey during the night. I went back to my home and collapsed into bed, not waking until the following morning. My father had not returned and after a bite to eat, I made my usual trip to my mother’s grave. The grave was covered in flowers – miniature versions of the flower that had guided me home. I knelt by the grave and wept. When my tears had dried, I thanked my mother. And when I had finished, I knew that I had truly grown-up. I told my mother how much I loved and missed her and picked a single flower from the grave. As i turned to go, I saw my father standing there, a disbelieving and tired look on his face. I ran to him and he embraced me. |
The storyteller paused for a few chimes before continuing.
“I told you at the start that this was a story of obsession, anger, betrayal and love – and it is. My father’s obsession for wealth - his anger at being unable to provide for his family - and my betrayal by picking the flower and cursing my parents. But what of love you may ask? Well, it is a story of family love. Despite everything - my father loves me and I love him – and we both love my mother. If you were to return to this tavern tomorrow, you would find Father and Son sitting here - drinking at this very table swapping stories and jokes. And, if you were to accompany us on a dig, you might hear his cursing, for his rage is still there – yes, there is truly no ending to this tale."
“Oh and as for the flower that saved me – well here it is.” He reached into one pocket and produced a small cloth. When the cloth was unwrapped, it revealed a small, delicate white flower. “My lucky flower. I am never without it.”
Guido picked up his drink and took a deep gulp.
Jischa winced as the boy in the story, Guido himself, followed after the flower, certain that it was leading somewhere perilous. Crossing her fingers in the hopes that the horrible father might shape up and rescue the boy at the last minute, she breathed a nearly-audible sigh as the flower led Guido home, relieved that he was safe, but slightly disappointed that nothing more exciting than a bit of mystical intervention had apparently occured.
A faint, wine-tinged laugh escapes her lips as she leans over Khal's left shoulder, her small hands running over the top of his chest as she slides her smooth cheek against the light stubble covering his jawline.