ftp.wwiv.com/ftp.wwiv.com.zip/ftp.wwiv.com/pub/BBS/KBCOS3.ZIP/TEXT.ZIP/COZ15.TXT

Text File | 1995-03-26 | 19KB | 602 lines

               Here is another tale from the Irishman Adam O'Brian
           we also have a third tale from this talented writer and
           will be publishing it in a future issue.



                                 A Minstrel's Song
                                        by Adam O'Brian


               An old Minstrel walked the cobblestone highway south of

          Shantu. He was a heavily traveled man. He had been many time

          scorched by the sun, many times washed by the rain.

               Wrapped around him was a multicolored robe. Once it was

          a fine garment; cut from the finest Tahkin cloth, hand

          embroidered, trimmed in lace. Once it was a thing of beauty.

               Now the robe was worn with age, soiled with use, only a

          remnant of what it had been. Like the man it clothed, the

          robe was ugly with the dust of too many roads.

               For many days the Minstrel followed this ancient

          cobblestone road. He had no idea where the road led, or how

          many miles had already past. Such details no longer held any

          interest for him. He was on a journey that had no boundaries.

               Finally the road brought him to the entrance of a vast

          City. An iron gate and five soldiers blocked his path.

               "If you've come to beg you are in the wrong place," The

          biggest Soldier said.

               "I beg for nothing. I am a Singer, I seek nothing save

          passage so I may continue my journey." The Soldier looked at

          his comrades then shrugged his massive shoulders.

                    "This is a place that would welcome songs of

          gladness. Sing for us, so we may judge the truth in what you

          say."

               The Minstrel lay his knapsack on the ground. He opened

          it and pulled out his harp. His fingers tuned the instrument,

          when he was satisfied he began to sing.

               He sang a soldier's song. A song of Westover the warrior

          King. A song of pride and glory. In the days of his youth the

          Minstrel sang the song with emotion and depth, he sang with

          such power he could move men's souls.

               This recital unearthed no such response. His voice was

          weak with age. It had been many years since the power flowed

          in his music, many years since he could sing the song of

          Westover with the passion it deserved.

               The soldiers turned away, four of them went back to

          their card game. When he finished only the biggest soldier

          still listened.

               "You may pass," the Soldier said. The Minstrel felt no

          joy at having past the audition. The Soldier's face showed

          not jubilation; but rather pity for an old fool. Years ago

          such a look would have filled a young Minstrel with rage. He

          was many years past the age of anger.  He gathered his

          possessions and passed through the gate without comment. He

          was many years past the age of pride.

               He walked into the village square. A busy market lined

          the street; vegetables of every kind, fresh meat dressed and

          hung, cakes and breads. He had not eaten in many days. The

          scent of such riches drained him of the last of his strength.

          He felt his legs turn to rubber and his head spin. He saw the

          darkened borders of the next world then he dropped onto the

          unyielding surface of the cobblestone road.

               He felt strong hands lift him by the arms pulling him to

          his feet, then help him off the street and into the sanctuary

          of a shaded park. His rescuer sat him down on the ground next

          to a giant oak tree.

               The strong hands belonged to a boy. A dark skinned

          child, with bright eyes. He was dressed in the rags of a

          pauper and he had the look of a young deer alone and wild in

          the forest.

               "Are you well?" The boy asked. "Should I call for a

          doctor."

               "I have no money in my purse to pay for such a man," The

          Minstrel admitted, then seeing the pity in the boy's eyes; "I

          am fine, only weak and hungry."  The boy nodded, with a

          wisdom far beyond his years.

               "Wait for me here," he said, then disappeared off into

          the crowds.

               A few minutes later the boy came back with a loaf of

          fresh bread. The Minstrel ate slowly, savoring each bite.

          When he finished he felt the strength flow back into his

          body.

               "Thank you my son." He said. He looked around, the boy

          had placed him in the middle of a tiny park, far enough away

          from the street that they were not in anyones way.

               "I will rest here for a while, after I have rested I

          will look for work so I might repay your kindness."

               "It is not necessary, I must go now, but if you are

          still here after the sun goes down I will have more food for

          you." The Minstrel opened his mouth to protest but the

          peasant boy was already gone.

               He slept away the pain of his journey, oblivious to the

          crowds in the nearby streets. When he awoke the dark of deep

          night was upon him, and the boy sat beside him.

               "Here is more bread and dried beef." the boy said. Again

          the Minstrel ate, too weak to protest, too hungry to question

          his good fortune.

               The next day the Minstrel scoured the city looking for

          work. The city boasted five taverns. Three of them turned him

          away after only one look at him. Two of them bid him to

          audition.  After they heard his old man's voice, the lack of

          emotion in his words, the lack of skill on the cords of his

          instrument; they too send him away.

               He packed his belonging and started to the far end of

          the village, ready to continue his endless journey. Behind

          him he heard a noise in the village. He turned in time to see

          the soldiers dragging the boy who befriended him into a

          waiting coach.

               "What is happening?" The Minstrel asked one of the crowd

          who gathered to watch.

               "It's the orphan boy Roan, he is accused of stealing

          bread and meat from the markets. They take him to the King."

               With horror the Minstrel realized the price of his good

          fortune. The coach marched off to the west and behind it the

          ancient Minstrel followed.

               After a half day journey he came to the birthplace of a

          rocky mountain, and at the foot of the mountain; a castle.

          Two towers adorned either end and a moat filled with a slimy

          green water surrounded it. The crossbridge was down but a

          Soldier questioned all who entered.

               The castle made the Minstrel remember the beloved walls

          of the castle Gretta, where he once sang for glory. It

          reminded him of the jewel incrusted towers of Leto, where he

          once helped build an army.

               Such memories only added to his burden and he tried to

          push them from his mind. But some memories cling like the

          scars of past battle's, never fully healing.

               As he walked closer to the drawbridge the Solider stood

          at atention. "What is your business here?" He demanded.

               "I come to see the King."

                The solider laughed. "What business does a beggar have

          with a king?"

               "I am Hendro the Minstrel! Do you dare keep me waiting?"

          The Soldier paused. He eyed the Minstrel in disbelief,

               "Hendro is many years dead, everyone knows that, begone

          old fool."

               "I am Hendro the Minstrel," he repeated. "I demand to

          see your king." The Soldier paused again, then shrugged his

          shoulders.

               "My king does not like to be deceived. I will take you

          to him, but be forewarned if you are not who you say, you

          will never leave here alive."

               "Lead on," the Minstrel commanded.

               He led him to a great hall, where a feast was in

          progress. The King sat at the end of a long wooden table,

          with a half-naked slave girl on either side of him. His

          knights and warriors were seated all-round him, laughing and

          talking as they ate, arguing and yelling as they drank. The

          King took one look at the Minstrel then laughed uproariously.

               "Look!" He shouted. "Here is the old fool who claims to

          be Hendro the Great!" The others turned to look at him, then

          joined in their king's laughter.

               "Oh-mighty Hendro have you come from the dead to sing

          for me?" The King sarcastically asked.

               "I come to ask a favor."

               "Anything for the Great Hendro," the King answered,

          winking at his comrades. "What can I serve you?"

               "A young boy was captured in the village, I ask that you

          free him. The food he stole was meant to feed me."

               "Free a thief? Not likely, he will hang with the others

          come morning."

               "I am leaving today, let me take the boy with me and we

          shall never return to your kingdom."

               "Old man, you are going nowhere, tomorrow you hang

          beside the boy."

               "What is my crime?" The Minstrel asked.

               "You are a liar and a fool."

               "I speak the truth, the boy stole the food to feed me."

               "Who cares about the boy, you lied by saying you are

          Hendro the Great, everyone knows he died in the Northern

          battlefields."

               "If I were Hendro would you release the boy to me?" The

          Minstrel asked.

               "Yes, and fill your pockets with gold, in return for a

          song, as would any King."

               "Bring the boy here so I see he is alive and well and I

          will sing for you." The King paused studying his face, then

          he shrugged his massive shoulders.

               "Get the boy," the King ordered, guards rushed off do to

          his bidding. They led the boy into the room, unlocked the

          chains binding his arms and threw him at the Minstrel's feet.

               The Minstrel read the room with traveled eyes, skilled

          eyes. He saw the obese gluttonous King with his slave girls

          around him. He saw the warriors; mostly young men, arrogant

          with the power of their untested swords. Scattered among them

          a few older men, veterans with eyes cold like the first snow

          of morning. The Minstrel knew If there were any hope of

          salvation, it could only come through their worn swords.

               "Begin Damm you!" the King commanded.

               The Minstrel removed the harp from its worn case. In

          spite of the command the King did not seem partially

          interested in the Minstrel's song, nor any of the others.

          Already they were concentrating on their dinner, and the

          women who served them. Already the room refilled with their

          talk and laughter.

               He strummed his instrument softly, he had not lied. He

          once was Hendro the Great. When he was young he walked along

          with the armies of Retana. He was one of the last survivors

          to flee the conquered land's of Leto. When he was young he

          was a different man.

               The music started flowing through him. His gnarled

          arthritic fingers felt limber again, the music poured out of

          him with a power he had forgotten. He looked down at his

          instrument in surprise. His harp bled music in his hands.

               The last time he had played with such perfection was in

          the Castle of Gretta, when he played for the armies before

          the battle of Twisted river. On that morning he played with

          such inspirational fervor that ten thousand soldiers roared

          with approval and rushed to the battle with his song still

          ringing in their ears.

               The next morning the Castle Gretta was in ruins and ten

          thousand lay dead along the banks of Twisted river.

              The Minstrel's finger blurred with a speed long forgotten

          with a skill known only in legends. To the listeners it

          sounded as though he was playing fifty harps at once, as if

          the frail old man was commandeering a magical symphony.

               When every ear was attuned to his instrument and every

          voice silent he began to sing. He sang to them the old songs,

          tales of faraway places, of things lost, things gained.

          Warriors wept openly, the slave girls fell to their knees as

          if he was a demigod and not a tired old Minstrel toiling for

          his life.

               The last time he sang with such power was in the fabled

          land of Leto, where he helped raise an army from peasants and

          slaves. In those times he travelled across the country

          singing for the people. Each day the crowds that followed

          grew. Each night when the song was done, his audience had

          become fresh disciples to the cause, fresh recruits for the

          army.

               By the time he escaped Leto the army he helped build was

          in prison or mass graves along the battlefields. It was then

          he swore that he would never sing again.

               When Hendro the Great finished, the room was silent.

          The echo of his song died slowly in the vast chamber.

               "Take the boy back to prison," the King commanded.

          "Bring the old man with him."

               "Why?" One of the older warrior's demanded. "He has done

          as he was asked."

               "Hendro the Great must stay to sing for us." The King

          answered. "Do you think me fool enough to just let him go?

          When we can listen to him each and every night."

               The Minstrel showed no surprise, he'd read the greed on

          the fat King's face, and knew the bargain would not be

          fulfilled.

               He started to sing again. Louder, faster then before.

          He sang of kingdoms lost, where warriors fought as brothers

          and not just to fill their purses. He sang the song's of

          Leto, the song's of the castle Gretta, he sang of the dreams

          that died at Twisted river. He sang of freedom.

               The words and sounds were so perfectly interwoven that

          all who listened came away forever changed. Long after he

          finished the memory of his song throbbed in the vast chamber.

          It's power echoing in freemen's souls.

               A white-haired Warrior rose to his feet, he was a

          dangerous man, a wily veteran many times tested. In a flash

          of steel on steel his sword was free from its scabbard and

          alive in his hand.

               "I say Hendro and the boy go free!" The Warrior

          screamed. Behind him ten other warriors jumped to their feet.

          Only the younger ones remained seated, looking frightened and

          confused.

               "I have already determined this man's fate why do you

          deify me?" The King asked. The Warrior had no answer. He

          stood proud and tall, as hard and yielding as Gretta's castle

          walls, as impregnable as her fabled keep.

               Reluctantly the King rose to his feet. Forty of his

          young warriors rose with him.

               "Put away your swords," the King commanded. "This is

          treason."

               The white-haired Warrior laughed loud, he sprang forward

          his sword a blur, when he stepped back two young warriors lay

          bloodied on the floor.

               The King lost his composure and tried to flee, the older

          warriors attacked. The clang of metal and screams of the

          dying filled the room. When it was over the white-haired

          warrior was King.

               The next day the people lined the streets, they cheered

          as a fine horse drawn coach carried Hendro the Great down the

          road. Women threw flowers so that his journey would be filled

          with the scent of summer, men screamed out their praise so

          that his ears would be filled with the sound of their

          gratitude.

               When the coach reached the border of the city the old

          Minstrel stepped down onto the dust of the road. The white-

          haired Warrior and the peasant boy called to him from inside

          the coach.

               "Stay with me," the Warrior said. "Together we can raise

          an army no man could conquer. Together we can live a life of

          glory."

               "Yes stay," the boy said. "Why do you wander in poverty,

          when you can live here in riches and fame?"

               The Minstrel bowed, he did not answer their questions.

          He simply walked down the road. In time he heard the fine

          coach pull away. In time he walked alone.

               He sang as he walked, softly, in tune with the rhythm of

          his walking. An old man's song, not a song of war or of

          glory. This was a sad song, a song of grief and anguish. He

          sang for the ten thousand dead on the banks of the Twisted

          river. He sang for the ghosts in the ruins of the castle

          Gretta.

               He sang for his youth, forever faded. He sang for

          forgiveness. He sang until he could sing no more, then he was

          silent. He walked until he could walk no more, then he

          rested. Come first breath of morn he walked and sang again.

                      Copyright  (c)  Adam O'Brian

                   First published in Cosmic Debris 1#