by Tavis J. Hampton

Darkness blended into light, as the old man's eyelids slowly opened. In a modest, dimly lit room, was a bed, with fresh white linens, an armchair next to a reading lamp, and a tray containing various objects. The old man ran his large course hands over the outline of his face as he attempted to gather himself and determine how long he had been unconscious.

To still be alive was good, he thought, but another day of life also brought another day of worries. His entire life, however long it had been, for he no longer remembered his age, was endured only for this day. He had hoped and prayed to see the time when Cor would once again arise from darkness and once again be the light of civilizations. He had dedicated the latter years of his life to telling the stories of fallen heroes and great sages from Cor's past, so that they might not be forgotten in the bustle of market sales quarrels or the physical demands of raising children, with barely enough to eat for oneself.

Was it right to trust all of this, the fate of these people, the fate of the known world, in the hands of a child? Could the elders have been mistaken in their prophecy? Could he have sent an innocent child on the journey in search of his own demise? He struggled to lift himself into a sitting position, and the sunlight from the scantily shaded window pierced through and illuminated his sculpted facial features. Each crevice in his face had a story to tell, more powerful than any of his own fables. Each silver strand from his immense beard was a reminder of the trials that his life had endured.

"Oh great! You're up, just in time for lunch!" A young girl, no older than 15, had entered the room unnoticed, until her rather startlingly cheerful announcement.

"Somehow hunger has escaped me," said the Storyteller, as he still shuffled back and forth, trying to reach his sitting position.

The girl scampered to the bedside. "Let me help you, Uncle."

Her hands were small and feminine, but they were strong and weathered, like those of an older woman. She carefully maneuvered her arms around the Storyteller and guided him to his now greatly appreciated sitting position.

He was not her uncle, at least not any more so than any other old man in the town would be. Her name was Shahzanan, daughter of her father. On one of his many trips to other lands, the Storyteller had encountered a great caravan of wealthy merchants, who had more than their fair share of just about every worldly pleasure, from the kingdom of Qamariya.

Storyteller noticed a particular carriage lined with exquisite gold trim, the finest elembur tree wood, curtains of fine red brocade, and a certain auburn glow that could not be explained, even by an eloquent man such as the Storyteller. The horse stepped with determined steps, as if running from something, but not wishing to appear as though it were running. Whatever secret that was held within the owner of the carriage, was also held within that horse. It was, undoubtedly, an eyewitness.

It was from the window of that carriage that the Storyteller first saw the hand that was now adjusting his pillow. It was, if only for a moment, the most beautiful hand he had ever seen. Expecting a princess of great regard to be seated within the carriage, the Storyteller rode closer, on his black thoroughbred.

As per Qamariyan custom, Storyteller approached the driver and inquired, "To what honor are we to bestow upon the occupant of this carriage?"

The driver, with a thinly trimmed mustache and a certain crooked snarl of a smile gargled his words, "The prisoner is the slave girl of His Highness, the Crown Prince Melkemind of Qamariya."

"Argh!" The old man's flashback was urgently interrupted by a stinging sensation from his right arm.

"You must have your shots, Uncle. Sorry. I thought it would be less painful if I did not warn you."

"It's alright, my child," he said, now relaxing back to the sitting position. "Have I ever told you the story of how I found you?"

"Only five hundred times, Uncle."

"Ah yes, so I have."

He raised his head slightly in contemplation and then glanced at Shahzanan askance with one eyebrow raised and a half smile upon his face.

She giggled in recognition, "But please, Uncle, tell me again."

"Oh well, if you insist. On one of my journeys to a far off land, the name of which I can no longer remember, I came upon a caravan of merchants, on its way back to Qamariya from an expedition.

"It was there that my eyes fell upon the most beautiful hand in the Known World and desired nothing more than to know who was the owner of such a perfect hand.

"I was informed, by the slimy driver of your carriage, that you were a slave girl of the Crown Prince, and that he was particularly fond of you. At the time I thought little of it. After all, why should a princess or a slave girl be any concern of mine? I only wanted to know, out of my own foolish curiosity.

"I saw you peek from the window of the carriage with your saddened emerald eyes. I could feel the intense energy emanating from you, but do not, till this day, understand the cause of it. It was as though you called out to me, despite being only a child of 4 years.

"Still, I had no business with the slave child of a prince, and any further dallying on my part assuredly would have incited a scandal. I departed, but I never forgot that look, that energy, or those hands.

"In the year of celestial harmony, the kingdom of Orisay, whose people worship the stars, raised an army against Qamariya, in an effort, once and for all, to conquer them and dominate the western savanna of the Known World. Although the two kingdoms had been at war time and again, the people of Qamariya enjoyed a level of serenity that blinded them from the impending danger.

"The city was ravaged, libraries burned, men slaughtered, and women and children sold into slavery. Qamariya, your home, was no more.

Until then, I had forgotten about you, but on the night after hearing news from Qamariya, I became haunted by nightmares of seeing your soft, innocent hands violently torn from your adopted mother's. The next morning, I knew that I must find you.

"I contacted four of my closest associates, and, together, we mounted that afternoon and rode, with speed, to the kingdom of Qamariya, or at least what remained of it.

"For three weeks, we traveled from hut to meeting hall, from farm to stable, searching and inquiring about your whereabouts and about the fate of your master, the prince. Finally, when it seemed all hope was lost, I met a fisherman named Yarfu, who said that the prince was alive and that he had aided him in his escape. He told me this, only after I had promised him sack-loads of gold.

"As we set out to the town that the man had mentioned, it was only then that I realized how much time had passed. It had been seven years since I'd seen you. How would I recognize you? I knew then that the only way to find you was to focus all of our attention on finding the Prince.

"Fortunately, the prince was not hard to find. The people of Orisay still recognized him as royalty, despite the cruelty that they had shown his people. And Prince Melkemind did not seem to mind the attention, in spite of the dire situation of his once loyal subjects. The Orisay`i people kept him hidden in the house of one of their wealthy maids, whose name I cannot remember. While the people still revered him, the king of Orisay wanted his head.

"The prince, therefore, lived in secrecy, but received tributes and finery from all over Orisay. You might find it hard to believe that so many people could and would keep a secret from their king, but I would say to you that you do not know the Orisay`i people.

"Anyway, upon arriving at this house, which, mind you, was more grand than anything you would find in Cor, we tied our horses and were greeted, almost too eagerly, by the maid. My, what was her name? What struck me as odd about this woman was that, with all her wealth, and, as I immediately discovered, striking beauty, she chose not to marry. She had servants waiting on her hand and foot, and yet she herself came out to greet us. Then again, you will find almost everyone in Orisay has some oddity and some mystery about them.

"She led us through seven corridors of her house, apparently to confuse us as to how we arrived at the final destination where the prince was hidden. As the mahogany double doors opened, there, seated upon a finely woven sofa, was a ten-year-old boy. Only then did I understand the extreme lengths to which he was always hidden from plain sight, even within the walls of Qamariya. Only then did I realize that you were chosen as his slave-girl so that you might be a childhood playmate for him.

"He informed me that you had been sold to a hermit, who had emerged only for one day, the day of his annual harvest, and happened to catch a glimpse of you at the market. He thought it to be some divine providence and decided to buy you and take you as a wife."

Shahzanan shriveled, "Ew! How old was he?"

"Let's just say, he was not a young man. The prince said that all of this had just occurred that very day and that we could still rescue you before the hermit returned to his unknown house beyond the limits of the savanna. Melkemind agreed to guide us to the location of the hermit's shop where he, once a year, sold enough produce from his harvest to last him the whole year, on one condition: that we take him with us so that he and you might once again be reunited.

"I make no exaggeration when I say this, for at the very instant that I nodded my head in agreement, the maid of that house removed the wooden post from the bed, as though it were a twig from a tree, and began swinging it at me and screaming curses in Orisay`i. Now, anyone who has heard the Orisay`i language knows that most of their words are at least four syllables long, and the woman had, perhaps unknowingly, been swinging her post to the rhythm of her recitation of Orisay`i vulgarities.

"After a few swings, I timed the syllables of her words and was able to snatch the bed post from her without causing her any harm. I could have shot her, of course, but I truly understood her sorrow at the prospect of losing the great prince from the kingdom her people had just degraded and conquered. Actually, I have no idea why it upset her so, nor why she did any of the things she did.

"At any rate, she then lunged at me with her hands raised. I dodged her attack, and my men grappled her to the ground, tied her up, and left her in that very bedroom. We fled that town with the prince and have never again returned.

"Now, the hermit was not a nice man, as well he should not be, having no practice at the daily manners of social interaction. But this hermit was particularly mean, even for a hermit. Nevertheless, he was also a miser, who cherished his money even more than his own well-being. He happily sold you to us, after we named the right price. Had the prince not been with us, we would not have afforded you, but the King had sent the prince away with most of the kingdom's wealth, knowing full well that the boy would have a better chance of survival.

"It is in that way that you and Melkemind came to be under my guardianship. Strangely, I still have not determined why you do not remember any of this firsthand. I assure you that you were there."

Shahzanan playfully nudged him, "Oh, Uncle. I'm sure it was a traumatic experience that my mind filed into my subconscious."

"Ah, my daughter the mind doctor."

"My Uncle, the flatterer. If I had been a mind doctor, we would live in much better conditions that we do now..."

"Now, dear, you know..."

"Uncle!" Shahzanan vaulted from the bed. "You are the Storyteller! The wealthiest men and the most inquisitive students from every land come to hear your words. They cherish your knowledge more than their own lives. Why cannot the Republic afford you the fine houses, expensive clothes, and servants that all government officials enjoy?"

The Storyteller placed his coarse, experienced hand in Shahzanan's trembling, delicate palm. She could feel the warmth from his hand transferring into hers, as though all his experience and wisdom flowed through it.

"Shahzanan, they have offered. They have never stopped offering."

"Then, why?"

"The great elder, Saditikun, once said that the wealth of the world is like the water of the sea. The more you drink of it, the thirstier you become, until it kills you."

Storyteller pulled the girl closer to him so that her now teary eyes could catch a glimpse of the light that emanated from his immensely luminous eyes. He continued, "My flower, by the Hadra, we were chosen for this life that we live. It is not an accident that we find ourselves in this situation."

"Don't you mean the Hadra has chosen you? I am only a slave girl."

"No!" At this, the Storyteller, rose from the bed. Shahzanan was unaware that he could sit straight up. Now he was standing over her with fire in his eyes and visible redness upon his face. She was now in full flowing tears, and she cowered a little and pulled her hand away from his.

"You must never think that," he whispered. "Never. You are also here for a purpose. Melkemind is here for a purpose. Fuad is not here because he also has a purpose."

He paused and turned towards the eastern window and fixated his gaze on the foothills of Cor. He could see the mist tumbling down from the mountains. His face crinkled as an old parchment does when it has been used for many years. He turned his head towards the floor, as though he were suddenly entering a deep meditative state, or as if he were trying to listen to a faint, barely audible sound.

"Have Melkemind prepare my horse," he announced.

Shahzanan quickly objected, "Uncle, you are sick!"

"You are neither my mother, who is long passed, nor my wife, who is much older. Now, you will do as I say!"

"I am your nurse, and I believe you are unfit to go anywhere farther than the garden! If you go after that boy, Uncle, you might die."

"If I do not go after him, we will all die."

"Then I must go with you."

He grumbled, half smiling, "Out of the question. I need you to care for your aunt. She will need you more than I." He coughed loudly and gurgled his throat.

Shahzanan threw her arms into the air, "What you need is rest and medicine, but since you have chosen not to listen to me, you must take me with you."

"Do not argue with me child. You will stay here. Now, tell Melkemind to prepare my horse and call on Albiyun, the woodworker. He will accompany me, and we will assemble a team of men."

Shahzanan rolled her eyes, men, what good will they be without a woman to keep them stable?

As she began to leave the room, the Storyteller said, "I heard that!"

"I didn't say anything, old man," she yelled through the closing door.

After the door had closed, Storyteller nearly fell to the ground, catching his balance with the bedpost. Had the girl remained any longer, he would not have been able to continue to hide his weakness. Pain crawled through his body like a creature trapped in a space too small, trying to escape. He situated himself on the edge of the bed and entered into meditation, focusing on removal of pain, but also distracted by thoughts of Fuad and his whereabouts.

Last update : 08-05-2008 22:01

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