The Chronicler
On this day, many aeons into our future, we will tell the tales of the kings to come; the job of a man called the Chronicler.
Every year the Chronicler came to town, always leading a donkey stacked high with things for traveling. He would exchange fantastic stories for a bed and a warm meal; a fair trade most would say.
He bore a heavy burden: the weight of his memory and it bore down on his back so that he was stooped.
He came to a little village called Springcombe. This was a pleasant place; a place where brooks would babble, sheep would bleat, and fields of wheat tall as a man would whisper secrets of the lovers who sheltered within. The summer sun's rays touched the green, grassy knolls.
In the village itself, white houses with thatched roofs lined cobblestone roads. A church bejewelled the end of the village, surrounded by a garden. Painted shutters were thrown wide to circulate air within the homes.
It was the laziest part of the day, right between lunch and dinner. Men lounged in the shade with hats pulled down over their eyes, women bathed away midday sweat, and the children temporarily paused their play. All was quiet.
Suddenly, at the end of the road came a ringing. A little donkey was led by a white-haired man, the Chronicler. He was very old, his age-spotted hand clutching tightly to the cane he put before him. Yet each step he took was sturdy and measured. Here was a man who walked so long that the earth beneath his worn boots welcomed each step like a warm companion.
The coloured bells around the donkey’s neck were loud enough to signal the children in the village of their arrival.
“The Chronicler! The Chronicler!” cried the children.
They emerged from within homes, thickets, and yards rushing to greet the aged traveller. The man smiled and waved. Hearing the commotion, adults poked their heads from windows.
Each family clambered at the opportunity to host the Chronicler for the night. Eventually, it was decided that Colin, son of Leod should host this year. His wife, Anne, would hear no other answer and Colin already called for his best sheep to be slaughtered to serve.
They had one boy, but he was grown and worked in the capital. A shame he should miss today. Anne’s love for her son overflowed outward toward the children in the village. She allowed them to run in and out of her yard. Sometimes she would slice up pies and place them on the windowsill for them to take.
Today was no different.
As the Chronicler sat to eat grilled lamb, Colin hovering in the hopes of a compliment, a group of children stood outside the door. Parents too made their presence known, hoping for a taste of lamb and perhaps a hint of what stories were to come. The first wish came to be. Colin was a generous man only wishing for the highest of praises for his grilling skills in exchange for a cut of meat. The second wish was up to the children to fulfil, for only children might get away with such persistent questioning.
Many stared with unbridled curiosity. The look of his faded rags and unkempt grey beard did not suit the manners with which he ate. His gnarled hands, like the roots of a weathered oak, cut the meat with ease.
The Chronicler listened to them, letting their incessant chatter take over the conversation so that he could eat in peace. His cataract-ridden eyes sparkled with amusement.
One boy asked, “Will you tell us the story of the Giants?”
Another, Aled, made a face. “Oh, no, Rhys. Not that silly stuff! I want to hear about the Frost Wars1, sir. Please, tell us about Averil the Subjugator2! I want to hear about his great deeds on the banks of the Sea of Ismere!” Aled slashed at the air with a ferocious swipe of his stick to punctuate every word as he continued, “About the good King Averil single-handedly cutting down legions of the black-hearted Cyld with his mighty sword to save the princess of Gomôr!”
“Or the old tale!” cried a little girl, Ceri, “before Hleoholt!” She began to sing a reel, badly and out of tune.
“No!” Both boys shook their heads with vehemence.
Ceri humphed and threw herself back down to her seat, arms crossed.
“No giants,” overruled Aled.
The younger one, Rhys, stomped his foot. “But I want to hear about the boy who struck down the giant Njall!”
Aled paused and threw his stick aside, bored with it. “I don’t know that one,” he admitted.
“It’s the one with Prince Gesund and his mighty men who marched against Black Reid3. So many died they both picked warriors to decide the fate of the battle. Black Reid chose Njall as his champion and Prince Gesund chose a boy.”
“Oh, well… Yes, that is a good one, I suppose.”
“Let the man rest for a moment, boys,” gently scolded Anne.
“It’s quite alright,” assured the Chronicler. “They’re just excited.”
“What will you tell tonight, sir?” asked little Ceri.
The old man winked. “I suppose you will just have to find out.”
That night, a warm night, the people all gathered in the village square. Pillows were lent from each house to build a comfortable seat for the old man and priests from the church came to light ornate street lamps so that everything was basked in a warm glow. Chairs and benches were brought out and immediately populated. The town musicians conversed in advance with the Chronicler. It was decided which ambience to set and what queues to listen for to give the audience the best experience.
This is what set the Chronicler’s stories apart, they were different in how they were told. They clung to the eyes as they did to the ears and listeners were plunged into the depths of imagination. Visions would swim before them and the voices of heroes and villains would echo through their minds as if real.
A cup of warm water with lemon and honey was prepared at the old man’s request and handed to him. With thanks, the Chronicler accepted it before looking at the head musician and saying, “Play a reel for the girl as I prepare; the song of the Marching Men. She wants to hear of giants.”
Ceri sat up with excitement. The band began to play a dramatic reel. It was one that many knew, it was very old from the time that the first people of the Kingdom of Hleoholt arrived in this land. Since then, it was used to stir up patriotism and bravery before the battle. It was a favourite amongst the villages in the Midlands. Older men in the village, those grisled from battle, sang the loudest, memory aided by the golden mead that they consumed.
Then, it finished.
Smiling, the Chronicler waited for the crowd to settle. He placed aside the teacup and leaned back into the pillows. Once everyone quieted he said, “You will need that song soon.” The crowd exchanged looks of confusion but the Chronicler gave no further explanation. He held up three fingers. “I will tell you all three stories tonight. We shall begin with a deal struck by a foreign warlord, Byzmor’s Deal.”
A soft ‘ooh’ spread through the audience.
“Settle in ladies and gentlemen,” urged the Chronicler. “Our first tale is about to begin.”
The Chronicler took a deep breath and then spoke,
“In the beginning there was nothing. It will be the same in the end. Time will encircle itself until we, as the inhabitants of space, are forced back where we started. Where in space? Where in time? Here and now.
A crossroads in a foreign earth that used to belong to man but no longer.
A crossroads at midnight in late autumn, under the shadow of Dragon’s Spine…”
Read on…
Nice - love the idea of a Chronicler as a storyteller. Keep pushing them out.
Wow! I can't wait to read more!