Gleeman's Tales

by Matthew Travagline

  “You mean I rescued it!” Julia said, lunging for the fox. “I’m practically Gaia herself. I felt the pain of poor Achilles and I fixed him up.”

  Cliff looked dumbfounded at Jethro. “Julia, I don’t know if Granz has talked to you yet, but you ain’t a guy.” Turning to Jethro, he said, “You know what, this is just too much. This behavior has got to be coming from that stupid school she’s been going to and that stupid northerner teacher who’s been feeding her lies.”

  “You don’t get it at all!” Julia said, poking her finger in Cliff’s chest. “Gaia (not Guy-a) is the Greek Goddess of the Earth. She was the mother of the Titans, Grandmother of the Olympian Gods like Zeus and Poseidon. And you! You are the Cyclops; you only see things through one eye. Just ‘cause I’m aware of ideas other than the Bible don’t make me a sinner because guess what, I’m as much a Christian as you. So, don’t give me none of that Satanic crap. You’re the one who’s got a dirtier tongue than sailors with nothing to drink but rum.”

  Having calmed a little, Julia continued. “I wish Mom was here. She was the only one who truly knew reason in this family. She didn’t rush off to fight a pointless war and she certainly wouldn’t be giving me a hard time trying to take care of a sick animal.” Julia watched Cliff’s face drop. “Yeah that’s right. I called this little crusade Pa’s been on, pointless. And you’re as stupid if you are bent on joining him. Maybe I should go live with Ms. Peggy so you can run off and kill fellow Americans!” she said, springing up and snatching the fox that Cliff had placed back on the ground during the verbal assault. She stormed off the porch and continued marching down the lawn, finally stopping to place the fidgety fox on a wide tree stump.

  Julia plopped down in the grass, ripping up green blades while she calmed down from her outburst. Achilles settled down, his face buried in his tail. “I’m sorry Cliff was so mean to you,” she said. “I think he blames me for his not being allowed to go with Pa into the army and he’s taking it out on you ‘cause we’re friends. But I’ve come to a decision. I’ll go live with Ms. Peggy down the road. She’s always seemed to me like she is the long-lost-fourth Gorgon sister, but she offered her home to me when Pa left two years ago. That, and I haven’t been turned to stone yet even after two years of school and a few-too-many up-close-and-personal stare downs.

  “I don’t want to, but if that can make Cliff happy, I’ll go live with Ms. Peggy for a few years,” she continued. “You know, he really does take care of me, Achilles.”

  The fox shot Julia a glare that seemed to question her sanity.

  “He might be duller than a jug of shine, but I’m sure that deep down, there is kindness.” She plucked the leaves still wedged into the fox’s nose out and then untied the bandage on its leg, noticing with astonishment how far the wound had healed. What once was a deep cut had already scabbed over and looked to be scarring.

  The fox glanced back towards the house. It then looked back at Julia and the two locked eyes.

  ◆◆◆

  Cliff stood in the kitchen looking out at his sister and the fox. After a minute of silence, he glanced to Jethro, who in turn, ceased his gun inspection. Cliff’s breathing intensified. He bit down on his lip, hard enough to break the skin.

  “Goddamn it, Jethro! Look at what that damned northern propaganda has done to my sister. It’s turned her inta a Yankee bitch. A heathen! I knew Pa shouldn’t’ve sent her to that school. They teach ‘em nothing but lies.” He paced around the kitchen, pulling cabinets open and slamming them closed. “That Ms. Peggy is a carpetbagging-northerner here to take our girls and make ‘em into abololitionist-whores. Ain’t no place for reading as far as Julia, or any other girl is concerned, unless it’s the Bible. Now she’s chasing some fantasy that a rabid animal is her friend. And a hero at that. Goddamn it, I’ll kill that mongrel of an animal myself.” Rushing outside, Cliff grabbed the rifle that leaned against the porch railing. He tore a cartridge on his teeth and watched as the powder trickled into the barrel of the rifle. He jammed the powder down and loaded the lead slug. Cliff cocked the hammer back and leveled his rifle at the fox that was resting on a tree stump next to Julia.

  A calm breeze rippled across the grass. A crow screeched as it perched on top of the house, observing the standoff.

  Cliff focused on the fox at the end of his sights. He saw the beast perk its dark auburn head up, test the air, and glare back at him. He watched it lean over and nuzzle Julia, whose back was toward the house and the boys. Cliff shifted his rifle to the left, pinning his bead on his sister’s back. In a lucid moment, he said to Jethro: “Jeth. We would have our chance to join up with the army. To fight the Yanks. She’s the reason we aren’t with my Pa right now. We could tell ’em all that she was playing with it. The thing went off on her. We was out scouting in the woods, but we heard the shot and rushed back. Too late. She’s dead as a doornail when we came in.”

  Cliff felt Jethro grip his bare shoulder, the boy’s nails drawing beads of blood under their sharp grasp. Wiping his own teary eyes, Cliff looked up to his friend’s eyes and received the quiet brunt of a stern lashing. “Don’t look at me that way, Jeth. She’s corrupted,” Cliff pleaded as he slapped Jethro’s hand away. “I love you Julia. But by God, may He have mercy on your little demonic soul.” Cliff re-adjusted and leveled the rifle.

  ◆◆◆

  “You’ve got a long life ahead of you Achilles. But you best be careful not to get caught in any other traps. I might not be there to save ya should it happen again.” The fox licked her cheek. “Goodbye my friend. I’ll remember you, always.”

  Julia stood up and looked towards the house. She spotted Cliff and Jethro standing together, Cliff’s rifle was leveled at her and the fox. He was whispering to Jethro. Julia instinctively glanced down at the fox and screamed: “No! Run, Achilles!”

  Bang

  ◆◆◆

  Gnochi emphasized the story’s end by slamming down on the stage with his boot. Among his audience, he saw the huddle that the maids had formed together. The sounds of hushed whispers tickled at his ears. The other patrons sat in quiet shock. A strange air blanketed the whole hall. Even the bustle from the kitchen was null as the staff took a break to listen. “Alright folks, now, what are we going to discuss?” he asked.

  As if shocked back to life, the maids and the rest of the staff functioned again. The movement jolted the patrons from their collective daze.

  “Who died?” someone asked.

  “That’s up to interpretation. Plus, a true magician never reveals his secrets,” Gnochi said, winking.

  “Come on, Gleeman. Was that a real story or did you just make it up? Give us the truth,” one heckled.

  “The truth is: that story is thousands of years old, no copies remain but that in my brain, and even if I could ask the author, I doubt I would get a straight answer. Whether or not it’s a true story is lost from even my archives,” he admitted, tuning the guitar. “But is the import in the destination in as much as it is in the journey?” He saw a few heads nodding.

  One woman from the back asked: “That girl, Julia, she spoke of a war between brothers. How big was the family?”

  “The war young Julia spoke of was the American Civil War.” This provoked a flurry of rapid questions all asked at the same time. Ignoring them, he explained, “America was a country that existed on the same land as our Lyrinth, although it encompassed all of the western nations, a few of the southern nations and even still a few faraway places as well. For various political and social reasons, this was a war fought between the more progressive North and a more conservative South. Many of the battlegrounds from the war, which occurred many centuries before the first age ended, are now underwater.”

  “Who won?” a man asked.

  “I think we’ll run into a similar issue here that we did with the question of who was shot, Julia or the fox. Every source I’ve read claims that the north won, yet when you see the numbers of casualties, hundreds of thousands—many times the po
pulation of Imuny and the surrounding villages—and when you consider the lack of immediate change, it’s hard to say for sure.” Gnochi continued to rattle off some information about the war, satiating the curiosities of anyone who felt the courage to ask.

  “Is Lyrinth headed for a civil war?” Someone asked. “I mean, what with the rumors of tension coming out of Blue Haven and reports of Luddites brazenly amassing power.” The man who had spoken looked around as if merely uttering the named group would invoke a hex upon him.

  It was this very question which had prompted him telling this particular tale. It was also the question that he was afraid of knowing, for fear that he was already too late.

  “I don’t know. I sincerely hope not though,” Gnochi admitted.

  “I’ll drink to that,” the heckler agreed.

  Fresh pints of mead and ale were brought to the patrons waving for more alcohol. For over an hour, the patrons pelted Gnochi with questions about the first age. Some inquired about the story, but most came with prepared questions about a random fact from the first age. Gnochi expected this. People would hear rumors or facets of first age life and used him as a litmus to test the validity of those rumors.

  Finally, Mirage walked up to Gnochi, nodding to him in acknowledgement.

  “I think my job here is done,” Gnochi said to the luthier, standing and stretching. He found his hat, resting on the neck of his chair and stuck it on his head. Mirage and the inn’s mistress looked to each other and nodded. “I’ll be back down once more before I make tracks to answer any final questions.”

  Gnochi stepped down from the stage and walked over to the stairs. He mounted the first step, then turned around to survey the crowd.

  They had begun, in hushed murmurs, to discuss the first age, and his story. He saw the maid, Cleo, standing in a corner looking at him, almost with a look of longing on her face. To dispel any hallucinations before they could worm their way into his mind, he shook his head and climbed to the second level, taking the stairs two at a time.

  Chapter 6

  As Gnochi navigated the midnight streets of Imuny, he reveled in the bright moonlight that shone behind wispy clouds. A sudden gust of wind blundered into him as he passed in front of an alley. Walking to the city stables, the nip of frigid air against his nose reminded him of why he wore the poncho. The winteryear was approaching sooner than predicted—sooner than he had planned for. As of last week, the morning sun rose over an earth already encrusted in frost. It was only a matter of months before the first snowfalls would blanket the Earth in their once-in-a-decade, yearlong reign.

  The stable, identifiable by the swinging horse-head sign, sat isolated and devoid of life on the outskirts of the city. Even the nearby barracks lacked any visible signs of life other than the faint glow of fire from behind one of the windows. Gnochi eased the door open and inched into the stable, careful not to wake the stable-boy who snored from atop a pickle barrel. The quaint building stank of horse and looked as if it had not been cleaned in months.

  Gnochi peeked into each stall, looking for his night colored mare, Perogie. He imagined that the other horses all belonged to lowly merchants or artisans from the countryside. Their owners would pay with little pence to spare for gratuity, so it was the perfect place for Gnochi to keep his mount. With a little luck, the underpaid stableboy would not even realize that a horse was missing.

  Perogie perked her ears as he approached and whinnied as if to say: It’s about time you came back for me. I don’t know what kind of city doesn’t let horses roam through, but it can’t be a good one. He patted her nose and eased the saddle onto her back, securing the straps and tying on his guitar case and pack.

  He led Perogie out, careful to make as little sound as possible. With the stable in their wake, Gnochi mounted and made to head for the gate.

  “No rest for the weary.” Gnochi’s whispering voice caused the mare to twitch her ears. “Or was it the wicked? We’ll have to look that one up the next time we go to the library.”

  He stopped short, turning in his saddle to look back toward the darkened city. The hair on the back of his neck quivered in chill, though he chalked it off to its effort to combat the cool breeze. At his urging, Perogie cantered to the guard post on the way out of the city. To his surprise, the guard manning the gate appeared alert and awake. The man sat before a fire, borrowing its light to read from a book.

  “Be well, traveler,” the sentry offered.

  Gnochi was destined to head west, but first he had to circle the city and dig up the weapons and extra pack he had buried before he entered. He knew that as a bard, he would be asked many questions if he entered a city with a bow, arrows, and a short sword; plus, the weapons would have been held at the gate, making a quiet escape impossible. Despite the inconvenience, Gnochi found that in all his years traveling alone, his physical weapons were of equal import to his survival as his quick wit, so he would not embark on a journey without them.

  After recovering the hidden weapons, Gnochi mounted the road leading west from Imuny. A sign peaked the top of the hill overlooking the harbor city. Facing to the south were arrows indicating Korb; north: Ludvit; west: Mirr and Pike’s Cathedral. Also in a westward direction was Blue Haven, which happened to be both Gnochi’s destination and the capital of Lyrinth. He had not fully descended the hill west when he heard the hurried clop of galloping horses coming from the city. Turning, he saw a small figure mounted on the lead horse, but it was too dark to discern the rider’s identity. Three other horsemen followed behind at a small distance, the light from their torches identifying them as guards.

  All four riders bounded straight at him. Gnochi urged Perogie off the road to allow the riders to pass, but as the lead rider neared him, they halted. The horse’s gait was fast enough that its hooves kicked up flecks of chilled dirt. The rider pulled back on their hood. Moonlight revealed Cleo’s face.

  “Funny seeing you here, Gnochi,” she managed to say between huffs of breath.

  “What are you—”

  “I’ve got an arrow trained on your heart, vagrant. Dismount from the horse now,” one of the Imuny guards called. He and the other two men rode up to Gnochi and Cleo.

  “Yeah, I might be in a bit of trouble here,” she said, dismounting. She raised her hands in the air and kept her palms open. “I’m going to need some help. Not that I’m a damsel in distress, mind you.”

  “A what?” Gnochi replied, flabbergasted.

  “Oh, please tell me you know about those. Surely one such as yourself has heard of first age fairy tales.”

  “Yes of course, but how is it that you’ve come to know of them?”

  “I’ve been around,” Cleo said, then laughed. She redirected her attention to the encircling guards. “Unfortunately, the only people who’ll likely hear my tale are the jailor and whatever rodents infest my cell.”

  The guards dismounted from their horses and approached. One guard held rope and he gestured to Cleo. “Hands.”

  “Wait,” Gnochi said, dismounting and positioning himself between the guards and Cleo. “Sires, you’ll have to excuse my apprentice. She is young, foolish, and daft of all sorts. A true Huckleberry—at least before he met Jim. I think she was mistaken in exiting Imuny when she did. Surely you will release her into my custody for proper punishment.”

  “What are you talking about, you coot?” a guard said, prodding Gnochi’s shin with the dull end of his spear.

  “Many apologies. Name’s Gleeman. Gnochi Gleeman. First class bard at your service—hence the surname.” Gnochi mustered the fanciest bow he could stomach.

  “A double name is not enough to look past this horrendous crime, Master Gleeman,” the guard said, minding his manners by adding the title as an after-thought.

  “How can I make it worth your while to forget this incident? What is guard work paying these days? More than the mere parcel I earned in my days walking the gates, I hope,” Gnochi said, empathizing with the guards through a flagrant lie. Grabbin
g a coin purse from his belt, he said, “For your troubles in coming out here this night, and for an official pardon on my foolish apprentice’s behalf.” He placed a stack of silver pence into the hands of the three guards.

  Their faces lit up with a patchwork of grins. “Apprentice? More like whore!” The guard belted out a hearty laugh as he accepted the bribe. “Does she go for silver or copper pence?” The guard slapped Gnochi on the shoulder.

  “Are you quite done?” Gnochi asked, feeling his cheeks warm.

  “Yeah,” replied the guard as he pocketed the coins. “Don’t steal anymore horses, okay?”

  Cleo nodded. The guard looped the rope around the stolen horse’s neck and led it back the way of Imuny.

  Gnochi stood next to Perogie. A light breeze ruffled the feathering of his poncho. He removed his hat and replaced it after wiping a layer of chilled sweat from his forehead which had formed during the confrontation with the guards. He scratched at the growth of hair under his chin. “All right then, up you go,” Gnochi gestured, offering his hand to help Cleo mount up.

  With a smirk, she took his hand and mounted Perogie, who for her part, turned and gave a bewildered look to her master which seemed to say, I thought you had lost some weight. You could do to lose some weight. I would know. I carry you everywhere. Gnochi grabbed Perogie’s rein and walked her in an arc leading back to Imuny.

  Cleo frowned and asked, “Wait, where are we going?”

  “We are going nowhere. I’m taking you back to the mistress you work for and I’m going on my way.”

  “You can’t!”

  “Oh? Watch me then,” Gnochi said, laughing.

  “I’m free to go wherever I want. America was a free country wasn’t it? Why shouldn’t Lyrinth be?”

  Gnochi knew that he was at the disadvantage. Even though he did not know her age, she looked old enough to be out on her own. “That may be true,” he said, “but millions of people came to America to work and were either brought as slaves and forced to work or brought into indentured servitude and forced to work; the streets, not as golden as they appeared. I’m still curious how you know so much of the first age. But that’s beside the point. We are in Lyrinth, which is not a free country. We have a king. We might live on the same land, but we don’t share the same values.