Pagewalker (11 page)

On that cue, he took breath and fell silent
for a moment, waiting for an interjection of denial and jests from
me or the other musicians who must have heard this well-rehearsed
tale, many times before. When none came, his tale went further
along.

“I had been there amongst the royals in the
high seats, looking down upon their annual festivities. Great games
that engulfed the hearts of all citizens of all races in Northland.
You’ve all surely heard the stories of sweat, and blood shed for
the entertainment of the crows? From small stables, meeting halls,
town squares, fields and even in the King’s very own Pantheon on
the eastern shore of the Troll Gap. Sitting amongst us were the
figureheads of the most honoured houses and factions, wide-eyed and
mouths wider still with drinks spilling from their chalices and
slow cooked meat in their hands, glaring down upon the sand where
the greatest knights, archers, and mercenaries gathered to claim
fame and riches in exchange for the blood and defeat of their
adversaries.

I am sure you know the games, I take it that
you also know its types? Jousting, fencing and archery are the
trinity of events, exalted above all others, and to claim victories
in any of the three bestowed equal honour upon the victors. Surely
as you know the types, you also know the champions?

The most famous of whom is of course Falair,
our most noble King. He took to the stadium on many occasions, as
the orchestrator of these great events he entered as an equal. It
was his very own idea to insist that all knights were to be clothed
the same and armoured the same with only a single rune of their
choice to distinguish them from the rest. No names or titles were
to be used until after the tournament. To honour the dead and
glorify the victors. Every competitor was anonymous, fair and
equal. Each time Falair managed to claim the title of joust
champion and expert equestrian, triumphing in both field and
woodland.”

“And the feast!” Boro shouted. Round faced,
grinning and patting his stomach in a pantomime fashion. Shaw
laughed, welcoming the interjection and continued without looking
on any of us again.

“And yes, the feast! A marvellous banquet of
delicacies typically on reserve for the royal families, but on
these wondrous days, Falair took it upon himself to feed the
people. All of the people. His deep passions for competition
infected all those around him, and I, being amongst his close
company, I experienced the brunt of these unbridled passions. Now,
you’ll excuse me this short moment to revere and praise the man to
whom I’d been in service. I truly wish that all men could know how
the mention of his name brought crowds to industrious cheer or how
the adoration ran so rampant, it nearly materialized into a
physical thing – within myself, it
has
done just as much; my
heart is for him, my life belongs to him also. I stopped myself in
quiet hours to reflect upon his lifetime of achievement: his many
conquests and salving of the westerly lands. After the great jousts
the Heaven split apart and rained down its hail; the crowd did the
same, breaking from the pantheon just as a jouster was crowned, and
the great King, having no love for storms, made his way on his
steed. His court followed short behind and yet, by the darkness of
the great storm, we found ourselves ensnared in unfamiliar
territory. Only by the grace of luck did we, in a panic, stumble
upon a luchorpán horde. ‘Peace upon us!’ Falair called to
them.”

“Hold on a moment Shaw, you never told us
this part before?” Boro interrupted him, looking perplexed and
startled that the story he must have heard a hundred times was
changing, he didn’t like change.

“Yes my friend, I know. I’m not really sure why I
feel it more appropriate to elaborate for this traveller but the
whole story needs to be told I feel. The Luchorpán are a secretive
race. A culture built on magic. They believe not in war, aggression
or fighting. They would move mountains before skirmishes would
settle the dis-agreements they may have. They deal in kindness,
generosity and trade only for goods and without currency. One
supplies the needs of another in return for needs of their own.
Fairness, not coin is King here. They are a gentle folk, who
believe themselves to be self-appointed stewards of Northland.
Planting that which is destroyed, using what is found and thrown
away. They have little possessions as the mother of the land
provides all that they need. As a race they are spiritual little
creatures. No single God, being or deity is worshipped or preached.
Every Luchorpán discovers faith in their own way and time. No
belief is wrong in the eyes of these beings. Therefore all are
accepted but as a secretive and silent people they always remain
wary, not un-trusting but aware that cultures outside of their own
scarcely behave and believe the same as them. Surely you have heard
of the Luchorpán before Christopher?”

A grin came over my face from ear to ear. A
proud grin, knowing that they were telling a story I had started in
my mind years before. It was a strange feeling but I wanted to hear
more.

“Yes I have heard some tale of them Shaw.” I
gestured for him to continue and not to stop on my account.

Shaw went on; “Well on this evening as usual
the peace-loving creatures took pity. As masters of that wood, they
quickly ferried the King and his court along to the edge of Stream
Worn. The luchorpán, though protective of their secret enclaves,
provided Falair’s party fair rest, food and whisky. A fine blend
long passed down from father to son for generations. Brewed and
distilled through natural remedies and stored for a minimum of 20
years. To share a cup with the luchorpán was an honour known and
lived by few to tell.”

“Aye, and I bet you have a little bottle back
there Shaw that you keep from all of us, eh pal?” Boro chuckled,
slapping Shaw on the back as he began his thunderous roar of a
laugh.

“No, no Boro, none here.” He continued “It
was only fair, Falair decided in his good grace, to repay food and
shelter with a spell of amusement for his hosts. He gathered the
curious creatures around an open flame, hushed the lot of them, and
with me at his side, recollected a great legend. It went like so…”
Shaw clapped his hands and all seemed to go dark around us. Like
the lights dimming in the cinema, when he began to tell the story
it was as though we meditated into a state where we could all see
the same vision. I cannot describe it to you but it was truly
amazing.

“I know little of your people, and less of
your tales. I however would take the greatest of joy to share one
of mine. In your solitude, I take that you are unaware of Aidan. He
once stood as Thane of Renir – a Kingdom nestled in the Gulf of
Antomn. The Thane had fallen deathly ill from a terrible plague.
The blight had spread throughout most of the Kingdom. Cloaking in
its clutches man, woman and child. Stealing breath from lungs and
hope from hearts. Even his greatest priests could not shelter him
from it. They summoned enchanters and priests from every land to
discover a remedy for his condition. Most passed through without
shedding a flicker of light on his condition. Until a strange man,
trained druid he was, entered the village. He brought with him
strange knowledge and advised the Thane to seek out a red-eared
albino mare. Supposedly, the blood of this horse could cure the
condition. Aidan, proud man as he was, commanded his advisors that
he would seek out the mare himself. But it was ultimately decided
that his first-born son, Prince Kain-Finn, would seek out the mare
in the Thane’s stead.

Kain-Finn was an excellent trapper and
located the steed within a fortnight. He followed it covertly to
its dominion: the shack of the Black Hag.”

“You don’t mean the Black Hag from Fish Heaven, do
you?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. It was a story I
had in store for Dertrid’s deed but couldn’t find anywhere to place
it.

Shaw must have smiled, impressed at my
knowledge because the pause before the story continued was longer
than was natural

“Indeed, I do. Perchance, you’ve heard of
her? But of course you have! Who hasn’t heard of the beautiful
wench who grew brittle before her time? The very same woman to whom
the Heaven owes infinite debts. The King meant her exactly, and it
was exactly her who held the key to saving the Thane of Renir.”
Shaw explained with the tone not unlike that of a teacher
explaining a theory and reason.

“The Black Hag was well-known for the quality
of her land. As well as the crops it produced. Wives tales told of
vegetables as large as sheep. Cabbages, potatoes, tomatoes, beans
and onions. Too large to carry, each enough to feed a family for a
week. At first people came from far and wide to buy them but once
the whispers of witchcraft spread like locust. The townsfolk
stopped buying the vegetables and pies she sold at market.

When Kain-Finn arrived, he found it in
shambles. Many seasons had passed since the days of her market
stalls. Long had the oven stood cold and bare. Still, he approached
the Black Hag’s porch and humbly and politely requested her
company.

A cold, croaking voice, strained with age
answered him. The Woman appeared from the shadows of her shack. The
title of ‘Hag’ fitted well. A long black cloak draped around her
shoulders. She shuffled on feet black with dirt. Dust and mud
covered her long cloak that was tattered and dragged on the ground
as she walked. Twigs and grass stains were reaching up her cloak
towards her waist. She was doubled over with a crooked back forcing
her to be ever watching the floor as she moved. Relying totally on
a thick, varnished staff. Hanging from the top were small skulls
from rodents and birds. Her face was in total shadow as a cowl
covered her head. No features could be seen except her pointed,
bony chin, white like thin parchment, wafer thin skin drooping over
her bones. The eerie figure complied with his request, but when
Kain-Finn offered two sacks of gold in exchange for the horse,
taking pasture in the small patch of grass behind the hut, which
was the only part of her property in good health, she shook her
head.

The Hag explained her situation. She told the
prince how her home and land had deteriorated. The horse was the
last item of value she had and she refused to sell it. Fearful for
his father’s life, Kain-Finn refused to give up the pursuit so
easily. He waited for the woman to leave home for her daily hunt
and summoned his entourage to her home.

Legend has it that while the old hag was away
during the day, the prince’s party was able to lay down new stone
foundations and treat the soil to restore its fertility. They were
all tired and sweaty at the end of the deed, but when the Black Hag
returned, her jaw dropped.

The once fertile beautiful land that fell
baron years after had returned to the once pristine, and even
improved, state it once resembled. The stream ran clean and fish
could be seen in the pond. The Prince had trudged the scum from the
base and skimmed the lime from the surface. The dust mound beside
the hut and been newly tilled, rows and crops were freshly planted
and watered. Even the thatched roof of the hut that had previously
collapsed was made new and slated with wood to re-enforce its
strength.

The Hag was pleased and as she turned to see
who had cast this illusion spell Kain-Finn presented her with the
two bags of gold. She was overwhelmed with joy at her new home. She
scavenged her finest foods and prepared a feast to thank the prince
and his men. Kain-Finn was reluctant at first, firstly for his
selfish and spoilt fear of the food. That it would not be of the
standard he usually ate in court but secondly, hoping to get back
to his father as quickly as possible. The Hag insisted. Staying for
dinner became a prerequisite to their deal, and Kain-Finn knew he
could not afford to slip up. So he accepted. It was dark before he
finally arranged the exchange of gold for the horse, and the Black
Hag saw him off with but one final condition. Kain-Finn feared
this. He knew of her supposed witchcraft and the stories folk told
of disappearing children and strange happenings in the forest which
she patrolled. However he heard her out. Her final condition was in
exchange for his acquisition of the horse, in accompaniment to the
gold, she requested he return to her with four other horses. She
gave no reason or clue. Just a simple request. No muttering of
curses or spells under her breath, no cackles, just a simple
request. A small one at that to be requested of a prince. With
that, Kain-Finn and his men saddled up, raised the banners of Renir
and departed her place.

Rain fell hard in the forest as the group
sped back to save the Thane. Nearly halfway home, they reached a
small inlet carved in rock and sought refuge there; their horses
were worn and their clothes soaked. As desperately as the prince
wanted to get home, he knew the weather would not permit much more
travel. Now, while the group rested, they received a strange
visitor: a messenger raven, carrying news directly from their
Kingdom. Kain-Finn removed the letter uneasily, the raven dashed
away, and he unrolled the parchment.Word had arrived. His father
was dead. The royal court had decreed that the ceremony for
Kain-Finn’s crowning would commence upon his return. Sadness filled
Kain-Finn. Upon entering the shelter he sat in now he was a
returning hero, filled with pride, joy and fulfilment. Now, sitting
in the dark corner under a failing fire of embers hissing from rain
drops, sat a boy. A spoilt prince with no victories to wright about
under his name. A son that wept on the realisation he had failed
his father. On the crack of morning he ordered his men back through
the rain to make haste to the Kingdom, and in his emotion-fuelled
stupor, the prince entirely discarded all notions of returning to
the Black Hag with the payment of four healthy steeds. Who knows
whether this was intentional or a slip of the mind, but the fact
remained that his negligence would not go unpunished. Of course, he
managed to return safely home and was indeed crowned in the
aftermath of his father’s burial and service. All the while feeling
empty, un-worthy, a false King sitting on a stolen throne.”