Pagewalker (30 page)

“Yes, um, actually there is something I need
to confess to both out you also.” He replied

“Well you go first Oisin!” Sarah waved her
hand at him in a welcoming fashion.

“Ok, well its kind of embarrassing, The
spell. Well I don’t seem to be able to get it sorted. I can work it
out and I have not managed to get the ingredients right.” He hung
his head with shame and kicked the dirt from under his feet.

“What does that mean?” I asked

“It means until I get it sorted you can not
return home.”

My heart skipped. Sarah squeezed my hand so
hard she almost broke bones.

“So what can we do?” Sarah questioned.

“Well I think I will need a few more days,
maybe you could use the time to visit some of the places you
created while I go and visit a friend of mine in Aondor?” Oisin
said.

“Aondor?” I exclaimed. I looked at Sarah, she
knew that look.

“Fine” is all she said.

“YES! Aondor, I’m coming with you!” I said as
I patted Oisin's back, harder than I meant to. He coughed a little
then smiled.

“I would be welcome of the company to be
honest.” he said

“Good, so when are we going?”

“No time like the present I suppose!” he
replied “A two day journey North and we will be there late evening
on the second.”

I clapped my hands, kissed Sarah, patted
Tessa and began gathering things onto the wagon.

*

The journey was an easy one. Like a slow open roofed
train. I sat on the wagon and took in all the surroundings. As we
approached the town Oisin told stories of Aondor. Like how at an
ancient age when the town of Aondor was built as a farming village
on the outskirts of the great city of Sáann, On the Throne of Sáann
sat the old king Dertrid. It is so strange hearing stories of a
character you created. A Person that you created to help you
through school and the tough times. The person who you guided
through an age and adventure of biblical proportions. Now a real
true king living for himself and ruling a kingdom.

The king had fought many battles in his youth
to clear the North of threats, now as an old man happy and fat on
his throne he was remarkably fond of hearing stories. Like many of
his kin, allies, great leaders and fathers, he had a favourite
story-teller, who lived in a large house in the town square of
Aondor, This was given to him by King Dertrid on the condition of
the story-teller writing and telling him a new story every night of
his life, before The King visited the land of slumber.

The story-teller was gifted, since he was a
child he had the ability to create worlds in his mind, worlds of
magic, adventure, humour, love and excitement. Hearing Oisin
telling this I felt like he was describing me. Since my soul was in
the book I wrote my land used a little part of my soul to create
another altogether. Better still, his gift extended into the art of
telling these great tales. His stories were loved by the other
children and they believed them as gospel. The talents did not end
there however. The story-teller used his gift to lie to out of
trouble, and mould a world of fantasy into threats, and sew fear
into the hearts of those who opposed him. He could win fights,
arguments and disputes by the flourish of his silver tongue instead
of an Iron blade.

So to say he was gifted was an under-selling
of his talent. He had already reached a good old age without
failing even for a single night in his tales, songs, poems and
limericks; and he displayed so much understanding, skill and depth
in his words that whatever state of distress or other annoyances
might have preyed upon the monarch's mind, or lay heavy on his
heart, The story-teller was always sure to send him to sleep with a
smile on his face and warmth in his soul. The tale filled our
travelling time well. Sarah and I lay and listened to Oisin as he
ploughed onward.

“Are you two still awake?” Oisin shouted back to
us.

“Aye mate, loving it, keep going!” I shouted
back to him. He continued.

“One morning the story-teller woke from his
sleep early and suddenly, he rose from his bed and walked to the
window. Every morning his ritual was to pray to the nameless God
for inspiration from the land. He would look out far over the hills
and streams, stone walls crumbling with age and on to the edge of
the cliffs leading steeply and sharply down to the coast. He would
see far and wide and believed that his God would tell him the
stories of the nights. Calling the animals by name and the
adventures they had that evening.” Oisin acted and made impressions
as he did this bringing the story to life once more.

Continuing he said, “The Story-teller would
listen gladly and wonder of ways of weaving these incidents into
stories for the king that night. Although this morning he found
himself quite blank; after praying and looking outward in silence
he left the room with no words of inspiration. He dressed and
wandered the town, listening to the conversations of the villagers
in the market.”

“That’s a bit creepy” Sarah jested,

“Shut up babe” I laughed “Let him go on,
Continue Oisin” I shouted forward again.

“Aondor was a bustling town. Its market place
was, and still is famous. It was the main trading post outside of
Sáann. Many people would travel from Dawn, Xill and even the dwarf
city. Town’s folk and fishermen living on the three join river
would come to sell their wares. Sáann was a great city, but the
people of Northland preferred quiet solitude, an easy way of life
and plenty of room to breathe in the northern, crisp air. Tall
buildings and tight streets did not appeal to most. It took a
special kind of person to love the city and a very special type of
person to live there. The storyteller would often hear the many
different events from week to week by walking the market. Today was
different however. He walked through the town square, past the
wishing well, over the three stone bridges that crossed the many
streams that flowed through Aondor to the edge of the town. Out of
the main town gates, guarded by two men that he had yet to see
awake. They sat all day long leading against the wooden frame with
helmets over their faces blocking out the sun from disturbing their
morning nap. Following the rickety wooden fences that formed a path
between the wheat fields, vegetable patches and the windmills on
the outskirts. Following this path that ran parallel to bubble
stream, it led winding up the small hill and out into the forest.
He listened to the birds chirp in the trees, the horses running on
the field and the water trickle by the brook where he eventually
sat. Although he heard the sounds he could not hear the story.”

“That must be hard, writers block I mean”
Sarah said, you wouldn’t have that problem love would you?” Sarah
asked me.

“Well not really when I wrote Dertrid's Deed
but I do when I'm with the band.” I replied.

“with the band? But sure your only a drummer,
not a musician.” She said while tickling my ribs.

“Aye whatever babe,” I laughed “So what
happened next Oisin?” I said. Oisin carried on with the story.

“After several hours in prayer he returned to
his house without being able to think of anything new or strange.
He found it easy to rely on his old opening lines such as” Oisin
put on his best Aondor accent,

"there was once a king who had two sons “or "
one day the king of all Northland," We both laughed at the accent
which sounded strangely like ballymena one,

“but he could not muse much farther than
that, he could not get the words to align. Annoyed and worried he
went in to breakfast, on arrival he found his wife waiting by the
door way, she did not seem annoyed by his absence but worried at
his delay. She knew her husband had a skill for word play but she
was also more than aware of her husband’s hunger and had not known
him to ever by late for a meal, or worse still a drink!” Oisin went
on with the story. Sarah and I both fell into a meditative like
state, We were not asleep but we could see the story play out in
front of us and under our eyelids. The true art of storytelling is
taking the listener there. Oisin did just that. We could see the
story play out in front of us now like a stage light drama….

"Why do you come to breakfast so late, it is
not like you my dear?" His wife said.

"I have no interest or desire eat anything,"
replied the story teller; "as long as I have been in court of the
king of Sáann, I never sat down to break our fast without having a
new story ready for the evening, I cannot eat before I tell you my
tale, but this morning my mind is as clear as a summer sky, with no
clouds taking form to make shapes or birds flying by to make songs.
I don't know what to do. I might as well lie down and die at once.
I'll be disgraced for ever this evening, when the king calls for
his story-teller."

His wife held his head and lifted his chin to
meet her gaze, she held it there and smiled, kissing his forehead
and looking deep into his eyes, she had skills of her own, one of
which was knowing how to brighten her husband’s mood. She pushed
the plate of bacon and eggs closer to her husband, “let this
inspire you for now” She said as she left him there to eat the
plate piled high with food. Just at this moment she looked out of
the window. Spotting something she called to her husband,

"Do you see that black thing at the end of
the field?" said she.

"I do," replied her husband.

They are coming into the town, I saw a
miserable looking old man and a thin limping dog, lying on the
ground with a wooden leg placed between him.

The story-teller saw his chance for a new
muse and ran, grabbing his cloak, bag of parchment and led pencils,
He grabbed his last rasher of bacon in his mouth as he rushed
through the kitchen and out into the street.

"Who are you, my good man?" asked the
story-teller once he caught his breath and wiped the remnants of
crumbs from his tunic and beard.

“Haha 'tis little matter who I am. I'm a
poor, old, lame, decrepit, miserable creature, sitting down here to
rest awhile. This is Belle however" The Dog Cocked its black head
as it looked curiously at the story teller, Up close he could see
that the dog was thin but well fed and fit. Most likely an old
sheep dog or a working dog of some type. A streak of white fur at
her paws was all that could be seen under the black fur that
covered its entire body, a brown patch on her eye and a copper line
down her nose gave her the playful look to go with this ageing
dog’s character.

The story teller noticed nothing but and old
black tunic that covered the old man he wore it like a blanket
wrapped around him, like a towel draped around a child after
swimming in the lake. His only possessions were a small leather
sack and a box

"What are you doing with that box and dice I
see in your hand?”

"I am waiting here to see if anyone will play
a game with me, I travel Northland now out of love for the land. I
Have No roof that covers my head most nights but I have a home in
these here lands. God keeps me safe so you can rest easy and remove
that mask of pity that sits so well on your face" replied the
beggar man with an honest and mischievous smile.

"Play with you! Why what has a poor old man
like you to play for?"

"I have one hundred pieces of gold in this
leathern purse," replied the old man.

"You may as well play with him," said the
story-teller's wife; who had caught up with him carrying a plate of
eggs for the beggar and trimmings of fat for the Dog "and perhaps
you'll have something to tell the king in the evening."

The Story teller agreed happily, knowing his
wife was right in all matters. He had been married long enough to
obey her rather than agree. He knew the difference. The Beggar set
up the game and a smooth stone was placed between them, and upon it
they cast their die throws.

It was but a little while and the
story-teller lost every penny of his money.

"Will you play again?" asked the old man.

"With what you have taken all the money we
have to spare today. My wife keeps it all hidden so I don’t drink
it or lose it gambling to strangers as I have just done"

"Haven't you a house, garments and
tools?"

"
Well
, 
what of them!"

"I'll stake all the money I have against
those."

"Nonsense, man! Do you think for all the
money in Northland, I'd run the risk of seeing my lady tramp home
barefoot? Would not be long before my head would be under that
barefoot and an earful of woe would fall on me!"

"Maybe you'd win," said the Beggar.

"Maybe I wouldn't," said the
story-teller.

"Oh go on, Play with him husband," said his
wife. "But if you win we will be visiting the market later, the
seamstress, Tayler and jeweller will know us by name!"

“Seems I loose either way, I never refused
you before," said the story-teller, "and I won't do so now.”

Down he sat again, and in one throw lost
everything.

"Will you play again?" asked the beggar,
petting Tessa as he licked the bowel of fat.

"Are you making game of me? What else have I
left to stake?”

"I'll stake all my winnings against your
wife,' laughed the old man.

The story-teller turned away annoyed and
feeling cheated, but his wife stopped him.

"Go on my love, Accept his offer," said she.
“This is the third time, and who knows what luck you may have? You
always have good luck, God talks to you! You'll surely win
now."

They played again, the game lasted much
longer this time but once again the story-teller lost. No sooner
had he done so, than to his surprise, his wife went and sat down
near the old beggar. Laughing she petted Belle who rested her head
on her lap.