**** Chap 1 ****

There was a special night for me, almost a lifetime ago. To say that it was a turning point for me would not do it justice. I’m not sure why I feel compelled to write down the events of that night, because my memory of it is so acute even now. Without delving into the ‘why’, here are my most vivid impressions of the ‘what’.

****

I had been sitting on the floor for most of the night. Like every other castle I'd been in that winter the stone was chilled to the touch. Fortunately tonight I had secured a place just off to the right of the fireplace and close enough to put me in relative warmth. The servers bustled in and out of the servant doorway behind me while the guests and nobility trickled through the main door on the far side. I kept my gaze on the flames as I took in the sounds and smells of the banquet hall, and for a few moments I was free from being a poor, simple bard for hire.

My life always went like that. The days and weeks of scraping by were all forgotten, if only for a night or two, when I could find a festival or a local lord seeking to entertain his guests. There was rarely any lasting payment, just the opportunity to be warm and well fed for a change. This night was a lot like the many other previous engagements; although I had to admit that this particular hall was fairly impressive. The ceiling was so high that the walls and tapestries seemed to just fade into the darkness above. Like dragon’s skin, deep green crevices wrapped around the large cut stones that made up the walls and floor. Several tiers of platforms sat in descending half circles around an open space. Long tables filled each level. It couldn't really be qualified as a theatre, but it felt a bit like one. There were rows of nobility and favored guardsmen of the lord sitting almost exclusively on the far sides of their tables. In this way they each man had a full view of the entertainers who would stand down in the front and center of the tiers.

The favorable layout of the room combined with the great blazing fireplace behind me made my well-worn stories regain a sliver of their luster. Any bard or story teller will tell you that he can often go all night without so much as a look from his audience, but this crowd had taken in my every move. Against my better judgment I even improvised in places to ease my uncharacteristic tightness and add more chances for action and drama. All the while every eye in the room, it seemed, followed me. Perhaps not my best evenings work, but I had been allowed to remain in the chambers afterwards. I was not always that fortunate. Already tonight a couple had scarcely made it through a verse before being tossed outside accompanied by laughter and taunts from some of the crueler attendees.

It was growing late and even the most attentive guests were beginning to pay more attention to their drinks than the current musician who was just then piecing together several familiar tunes. My attention span with him was also faltering. It occurred to me that the fire had dwindled a bit. I half-heartedly searched among the many faces for the servant who was responsible for stoking the coals. I intended to give him a quiet warning about putting another log on before Master Callous took notice.

Sir Callous enjoyed the reputation of being a hard man who enforced his laws with their penalties to the letter and took no interest in the affairs of his subordinates or his lands unless they owed or vexed him. By the standards of the surrounding regions he wasn't terribly oppressive. Those living in his territories say it was nearly pleasant in the summer and fall when the weather was nice and the harvests were good. Many of his laws were founded on the laws of long ago so his people had slowly adjusted to his rendition of them, but when times were tough he offered them no help. His character was that of an unyielding granite stone.

During this contemplation I became mesmerized by the glow of the embers in the fireplace hearth. The portal of the fireplace was as tall as a man and as wide as a door. The soft light from the coals invited me to forget my senses. I wanted to walk into the warmth that they offered.

A bit of motion opposite the fire took me out of my sullen trance. I hadn't even noticed the musician finish. He and I had gigged many of the same festivals, and he had offered nothing original tonight. The sounds of the hall had been growing softer in along with the fading firelight. I had started unconsciously stretching my joints in preparation for the inevitable mandate to head back out into the cold. It was nearing that time, but another man across the fireplace hearth from me was making his way into the speaker's clearing. With gratitude I settled back into my temporary comfort for at least a little while longer.

He moved slowly but with an overall grace that warmed me just by his presence. His stooped form wore animal skin rags and old sandals that obviously had seen more miles than mine. A tense hand held a cane to aid his movement toward the fireplace clearing. His ragged, overhanging hood obscured any decent view of his face for the moment.

It took him some time to make himself comfortable in his place. He seemed to connect with nearly everyone in the room. After slowly spanning the room his gaze came on my group of leftover entertainers; and his eyes met mine. Instantly I was brought back to where I had been minutes before... like I was staring into the coals again, wishing for a way into their warmth. His face set my soul at ease and my reflexes on edge. His countenance bore a weariness that can only be earned by many trials and an intimate understanding of heartache. Overall his expression was one of both calm and a rapt alertness. The silence was broken when at last he addressed the people in a way that caused the whole assembly to unconditionally give their focus to him. Before I could try to comprehend what technique he used to accomplish that so marvelously, I was swept up in the story of an ancient kingdom.

****

His story was so elegant and intricate that I do not possess the skills necessary to attempt a full recreation of it. He spoke of the majesty of King who was power, wisdom, and justice embodied. This King held dominion over all the land and ruled it rightly and with a rod of iron. His story wrought in beautiful detail many wonders – from spectacular things in the sky to immense things rising from the depths – the true King had built monuments to remind His people of the greatness of His kingdom. He fought against his enemies and left none to stand against him. He had in his service many men of notice and his epic branched into tales of mighty men and bold women; of great battles on a hundred fields; of quiet glimpses of time spent with His dear friends, and not a few simple people who become great in His service. But the rest of the Kings subjects eventually began to swear allegiance to their fellows to whom the King had entrusted with extra lands and wealth. These local men took their stolen power and praise and tried to liken themselves to the true King of the lands. In spite of the bounty of great monuments in the land, the subjects chose to raise up pale likenesses around their own castles. In time the imperfect replicas cluttered the view of the original masterpieces. Withholding justice and leaning on mercy, the distressed King told the Commander of His vast armies to bide their time and spare these subjects for a bit more. "Give them more time," He said, "and we'll have no doubt who is worthy to see their rightful King and who it is that will be burned like kindling in a great fire by his own actions."

As more and more time wore on, the patience of the King was again and again tested. Finally the Commander was called to the King's personal chambers. "Assemble the finest warriors as an honor guard for My Ambassador.”

“Whom will you send to deliver your message, Majesty?” The general asked, thankful to have some action taken against the rising rebellion.

The King replied, “My Son will go to them to point them in the direction of green lands and beautiful cities that have become neglected nearer to my castle. As you surely know, He is My Only Child and will carry all my rank and will be escorted and obeyed as such."

The Commander hesitated for the shortest of moments before heading out the great doors of the Throne room to pick out the Honor Guard.

A short time later, the King looked at the Son in anguish for a long time as if to reaffirm an agreement between them. At last they both nodded and embraced before the Prince set off. Like the sound of rushing waters the voice of the Father called out over the valley as the grand procession crossed over the borders beyond His fertile lands, "He has all of My authority; I take pleasure in Him; serve Him unfailingly in anything He might ask of you."

In a breach of protocol, the Prince would walk throughout all of the coming travels rather than ride his own horse as an officer. As they marched down the road the Son discretely approached the Commander on his horse. Without loosening His gaze from the road ahead He spoke softly, "Stay close, but hide yourselves. Whatever may happen, my order to hold stands until I give indication to the contrary."

This time without the slightest pause, the commander set his jaw as he answered, "It will be as you say."

For many months the Prince tried to teach the weary travelers he met to live without carrying the stones to build their monuments. He pointed to the original wonders, pleaded for reason from the people, and warned the guilty of their crimes. Mostly His efforts fell on deaf ears. The Son sent word back to His Father on several occasions, re-affirming his mission and his concern for the few frail subjects, who had on a last hope blindly agreed to leave all they had. They left their possessions in the land to follow the Way that the King’s Emissary had shown them back towards a promised freedom. With each of these hopeful ones he quietly dispatched a few warriors from his royal escort to guide them in secret.

At intervals the bard flavored his epic with stories about these pilgrims.

****

Somewhere during this series of smaller tales I slumped back on my elbows for a moment to take in the speaker himself. His words were so engrossing that I had been seeing nothing but the scenes he painted in my mind of otherworldly warriors, great castles, hopeful travelers, and the wicked people of the land. For a rare moment in my life I had forgotten myself.

I needed to take in the man behind the spinning yarns; I needed to learn his ways and how to convey such a story of passion. These words had life breathed into them. A fire for living was in his form that kept the room from growing cold even though the last coals gave up their struggle to provide us with light awhile ago. His hood had slid back a bit from his animated pantomiming of the exploits of the mighty men of the King. The remnant light of the room’s scattered torches reflected off his weathered face. The deep creases within his expression still concealed the deep secrets that they had before, but the emotions behind his face had no barrier. It was as if the story was a window into his being, not an idea he had crafted for a free meal and some drink. I felt dirty.

The fire attendant walked by with an assortment of small logs

His movements were still laced by a certain stiffness, but were athletic and effective in their conveyance of his message. Yes, that's what it was, not a story but a message.

****

Once again his voice grasped my imagination and placed it soothingly back on top of my intellect and observation of the room around me.

I regretfully missed how it had happened, but some of the local leaders had collaborated to take the Son into their own courts to question His identity and authority. In a crowded auditorium people pressed in to hear the Ambassador’s defense against the myriad accusations that were being brought against him. His only response was to silently motion to his loyal commander, who had anxiously remained nearby in the crowds. The commander stood fully armed but concealed in a heavy cloak. He only had time to make one quick motion towards ending this mockery before he fully interpreted the message, 'send the troops home they will not be needed this time'. The shocked leader’s arms fell limp to his sides, and the wound up tension in his joints from a moment ago faded while a full realization of the Prince’s mission blew through him like a cold wind.

For a passing moment I felt the disbelief of the sullen commander and the helpless rage of any idle pilgrims who were still near enough to see the masses at the "trial". The fortunate ones would be far enough away to be quietly ushered onward by their escorts.

****

My head was spinning with trying to understand what sort of great Prince would undergo such a thing, and for what?! All He had gained was a chance that a few families would be welcomed to His Father's courtyards. This was just stubborn obedience to a Father that felt so far away to me. The Ambassador KNEW these men should be destroyed if the King had a righteous bone in his body. Besides, then the masses would see the power of the Prince and have no choice but to return to their rightful King. In a burst of emotion I almost cried out loud in the chamber to free the peasants and do away with these evil overlords now, but I bit my bottom lip left the storyteller to weave His tale.

****

Then the unexpected happened. The Son was put in a high tower for all to see, and several commanders of the armies of the land were told to find out what the masses would say. The bard shouted and gestured wildly to illustrate the outraged reply of the crowd and their cries to kill this man for declaring there to be anything greater than what they had built.

****

Then this strange old man stopped and made that same sort of contact that he had indulged in earlier. As he scanned the room I took the opportunity to do the same and behind the tipped over cups and cold meat, faces sat in silent anxiety and anger against a man who would blow their whole night in a story that was looking to end so miserably. These people, especially the most important opinion in the room who was seated at the top and middle of the terraced rows of tables obviously did not like an unhappy ending. Inside I was begging this masterful speaker to stop this foolishness and make up something about the commander returning with his armies, or a sudden storm arising to rescue the Prince, or a bold escape back to the waiting King, or.. or... something to save himself.

****

As I tried to anticipate how the story teller would save his neck I felt that warm gaze again. I turned to look at the man and tried hard to convey my concern for his safety, and then I saw Him. His eyes burned into mine and he continued to speak of how the crowds helped in mocking and beating the Son of the Great King. For the second time that night I felt intensely dirty. And it did not end there, he spoke of how the pilgrims who would travel to his Father's land stood by and mourned for their Prince, but many of them wandered back into old homes or found new lands on the way to erect their own castles and enslave their fellow travelers. The tale-weaver's gaze was still on me as he spoke of how there were a few who found their way to lands of white cities and sparkling rivers. Then he turned to face the master of the banquet and said, "... and then the local lords severely beat the rightful Prince and dumped his body over a cliff to land in the deepest, darkest heart of the woods..."

****

Master Callous stood to his feet, slammed his fist onto the table, and cried out to cut off the words of the bard. It may seem strange to the reader now, but you must understand that if you had heard the story as we did that night you would have had to choose too. To this day the image of that moment strikes me as odd. Two etchings in flint squared off in a long moment of tense silence. Power, youth, and rage stared down at rags, passion, and sorrow yet one could scarcely tell the difference. I instinctively pushed my back against the large step that supported the first row of raised tables trying to stay out of the way of the guards that I knew would likely be called to seize the man. I felt terrible for the old story teller, but what could I do? Just as I was making a mental connection between myself and the Prince's pilgrims during His trial, all the emotion in the room erupted at once.

Not just the usual two guards I had expected, but it seemed that nearly every man in the room with a family crest rushed forward to lay hands on him. I still don't entirely understand what it was about this storyteller and his story that led to so much rage that night, but if their anger toward him was felt as deeply as my empathy, their reaction was no less than expected. The outcome, however, was not as predictable. Go ahead and cue the crazy baseline music for the action sequence in your mind.

In the time it took for a couple of tables to tip and the many men to clamor over them toward the clearing, the 'old man' had turned and was now stooped over in the entry to the fire hearth. He had shed his leather cloak and the deep blue fabric of royalty was tucked tight against the skin of his back. And while Callous was drunkenly screaming something about throwing the fool from the watchtower the men of the place converged on him.

Suddenly, the semicircle of men staggered back screaming and debris flew in a wide arch around the room. In answer to my questioning as to what had happened, a couple small coals hit the floor where I'd been sitting and rolled away. The acrid smell of branded cattle filled the air, and I squinted to see through the cloud of ash to make out what was happening. He stood with the leather coat hanging from one hand and a confiscated sword in the other. I could see that the fur on the man's animal skin coat was obviously the source of the smell. It was charred heavily from being used to throw the fire’s remains.

He didn't stand there long. The men who could still see lunged for him and a blur of activity and confusion ensued. This stranger, although he still bore all the same intensity and calmness he had during the story, had shed all signs of his former decrepidness. He moved artfully to keep his back to the chimney opening and manage each attack as it came. Some of the men were felled by each other's swords in the madness and emotionally charged confusion; others were dispatched as their momentum sent them past their target and crashing headlong into the soot covered wall. During it all, I crouched under a table, spellbound. Several other guards entered the room from the far doorway. One of whom carried a short bow. He quickly drew back to fire. Without thinking I cried out, and as the arrow released, I watched the stranger fall. When he did, the coat he held swept out to wrap around the incoming blade of his nearest attacker. The arrow hit the wall just above the stranger's head and the surprise of it sent another would-be antagonist backpedaling until his heel hit the terrace step and he fell backward.

The man moved along the wall and up one step toward the far doorway and the inrush of new guards. I wondered how long the man would keep this up until his luck ran out or he realized how bad the situation was becoming. A merciful cook began pulling me away to the servant entrance, "there's no reason for us small folk to get hurt in these games if we're smart," he huffed in a gruff voice. He yanked me half way to my feet and hauled me back while I dumbly stared across the room where the story teller leaped back from a vicious overhead swipe to land his feet on the end of a still upright table. The sudden unbalanced weight made the heavy table tip up and sent the bard sliding back to the wall. He used his momentum to crash down onto the attacker's still extended arm and threw the smoldering coat into his face. The outnumbered stranger quickly stepped forward against the thick wood of the table as the tips of another two arrows embedded themselves into the table bottom. The archers’ shouts made it obvious they were infuriated by his improvised cover. Just then my view was blocked as we went around the corner and the burly chef pulled the door tight.

I suddenly realized how hard I was breathing when I tried to speak, "We should help him."

The man across from me was large enough to make the small hallway feel even tighter. "We'd be more of a hindrance for a man who handles himself like that," he roared hastily.

"You're big enough to do your share and I could at least buy him some time," I pleaded madly.

I could see conflict in his eyes as he looked back toward the doorway. I stared at him waiting for a several second eternity. Without looking at me the man waved both hands in a gesture of frustration, "It's your funeral. Fine thanks you give a guy for saving your skin," he called out over his shoulder as he turned and jogged down the hallway away from the banquet.

I thought desperately. Time was wasting and my stomach was twisting tighter with every second. My thoughts went to a sole pilgrim in the story who tried to stop the mob from executing the prince; how I had taken some comfort when one man at least tried to save the Son. I hesitated a moment to think on it. There was no choice; I had to go back in. I resolutely pushed the door open more easily than I could push aside my fears.

The scene was disarray. Men and implements were strewn all over the room. Some were motionless, others groaned faintly; the chairs and tables were lying in every imaginable position; the air was as still as in a sealed tomb. My view from the servant’s door looking up at the terraces gave me a frighteningly clear history of the last couple minutes. Only two men still stood upright. Callous backed slowly across the top terrace away from the exit doorway. Blocking the entrance the story teller was again staring at the lord of the banquet. This time they were eye to eye on the same step. Master Callous still showed the same bitterness and defiant attitude, but the influence of terror on his movements was unmistakable. His face hadn't really changed, but for the first time since I saw it as it was: simply the face of another man. The stranger had also changed very little. Though the sweat had made his clothes stick to his body like his hair stuck to his head, the background of sorrow and calm poise had not left him.

After a still moment, the story teller broke the stillness with a disappointed shake of his head. Then he dropped each of the two swords he held, one at a time. The castle’s master trembled as each one clattered to the ground. When the victor turned to walk away, Callous silently knelt to grab a spear that lay across the body of its former owner at his feet. He cocked his arm back to throw. Before I could clear my throat to scream the stranger made a quick turn and sent a handful of gleaming metal shards to rest in the body of the unyielding Master Callous. There was no look of triumph or even pause to consider the scene; the stranger passed his one last second in the room by locking eyes with me. His were now as clear as a heat wave. This time I didn't feel dirty, only naked and vulnerable. The sound of his last enemy falling to the stone followed him out into the hallway

I did the only thing left to do. I turned and headed to the servants quarters to put some distance between myself and that room... and to consider where I would go from there.

****

...and it's troublesome that I remember as much of that night as I do. That winter is a time past, and now it's the season of dry and scorching heat. It's rare that I have a noble audience anymore. I occasionally uncork a vintage tale to an inn full of drunken patrons or share whatever I can remember of the Prince's story with whomever I may find myself traveling. After that fateful night I am only at peace when I find another rare soul who is as possessed by every detail of that same story as I have become. That's why I’ve continued to wander the sun-baked roads every day since this years rainy season quit. I'm hoping that this time I have finally caught up with him. Maybe he can put to rest the thoughts that spin unceasingly in my head.

**** Chap 2 ****

Ahead the town of Estridge becomes clear through the heat mirage of the midday sun. I need to stop for a bit. The sun is particularly hot today, or maybe it's just wearing on me that I've been out of fresh water for at least a day now. There are very few buildings in Estridge to choose from so I easily find the local tavern. Through the window I can see the bar is a simple counter in front of the wall off to the right. Despite its small size there is a jumble of tables and chairs to the left with a wood stove doubling as the fireplace beyond them. The two doorways in the back corner behind the counter presumably show that the owner lives in a back room on the lower floor and they may have a boarding room upstairs. The other door I guess goes down to a storage shelter underneath.

I ease the door open to find a larger man standing behind the bar staring ahead deeply engrossed in thought. A middle aged lady probably no taller than five feet is wiping off one of the still upright chairs. Just as I cross the threshold and realize that I'm not sure how to greet people in this area, the woman notices that I've just come in, and relieves me of the burden.

She hastily drops everything on the table, makes a habitual adjustment to her wavy brown hair, and hurries toward me wiping her hands on her simple gown. As she walks she makes a quick glance across to the man and sees that the other man is still not moving. Obviously frazzled by my unexpected appearance, she does her best to recover, "Hi there, we weren't expecting anyone this time of day."

Trying to ease her concern over not being ready, I reply, "I apologize, I only need some water. Then I will be on my way."

"Oh I've heard that before. You're unhealthy red and would probably do well to stay out of sun for a bit during the heat of the day. I know this place is small, but you’re not the first traveler we've had through here," she answers almost sternly.

The man I presume to be her husband had come out of his trance and comes around the bar to enter into the conversation, "I don't have much for cool water, but what I do have can be supplemented by whatever else fits your taste."

Sizing them up, I think I'll push my luck a bit, "I don't have much to trade, so I'll take just have anything you can spare and a spot of shade if you're willing."

"Sure, sure. That'd be fine. Pick a seat, it's especially cool over there," he answers as he motions over between the cellar entry and the north window, "I'll go see what we have extra.”

"You will not!" the little lady chimes back in, this time unmistakably stern. "He has an honest face - get him whatever is coldest down there and he'll take it without strings attached."

The man stops, then turns to look at her... bites his lip, and softly muttering something about not running a charity, he starts down the stairs still lost in his thoughts.

I call out after him with my grin making its way into my voice, "She's very kind, but I really only need a little water!"

I proceed over to the recommended spot, receive a little water in a somewhat foggy mug, and sit back to take in the details of life for these people. Over the next couple of hours she continues her various chores politely confining most of them to the other rooms she pauses to check on me several times, and every time encourages me to rest as long as I'd like. Several people stop by to visit with the owner. Each time they talk with him at length about various topics, and then leave him to wait for the next “unscheduled appointment”. Eventually his chain of visitors breaks for long enough to make me feel comfortable in approaching him. I stand and make my way across the small room picking up some remaining pieces of trash on the way.

"Where do you want some of this stuff?" I ask tentatively, indicating the collection of junk I had accumulated.

Apparently in better spirits now he pokes at me, "What's this, do you think you're gonna work off a couple draughts of water by putting this wreck back in order? My wife will never allow that," ending with a grin to reaffirm his good humor.

"I don't know if you have anything down there to make it worth that," is all I could think of to say.

"She seems to think so," he said placing both hands on his side of the bar and deepening his voice just enough to incite a reaction from the woman who is just now getting around to putting the main room in order. I watch as she turns, squints her eyes, wrinkles her nose, and purses her lips in a look endearing enough to convince me that he's getting as good a deal as anyone and then some.

"I guess we'll see how thirsty I still am then," I said as pushing myself away from the bar stool I was leaning against. I set a couple of nearby chairs upright.

As I start work on getting a single overturned circular table back on its feet the man grabs the other side making the task easier. We slip into a little work detail and the conversation is candid and informative.

Kobi and his dear wife, Issa did in fact have a room upstairs and they function as the curators for the main hub of activity in this town. Nearly every night the local boys would descend on the ‘Kodiac’s Den’ and let the night slip away. During our talk I had voiced my frustrations with catching up with the man I seek, but left out the details on why it was that I followed him. True to form, Issa again offered their hospitality to me in staying the night before I went on, and after finding out that I was an entertainer by trade her husband agreed, probably hoping for a change in the evening’s routine.

Despite my burning desire to continue on, I felt obligated to rest and share company with them. The last two months have been long with little reward for all my effort. Maybe one night of relaxing into my old rhythm would strengthen me for an extra push to catch him in the next couple of days.

I sit down in a chair and lean my head back against the wall. There are several hours before dusk when the regulars will start to trickle in and so I settled in for the wait. The last thing I remember thinking was something about how long it had been since the last time I felt at home…

****

Kobi woke me with a nudge and an understanding grin. “I thought you might want to know that it’s almost dark and you haven’t had anything to eat since you got here. We were wondering if you’d have a bite to eat with us before the force that caused last night’s mess comes back.”

“If people in these parts are as hospitable as you two, I’ve been missin’ out by not stopping more often,” I heaved myself up with a thankful grin. What they didn’t know is that I haven’t eaten much beyond what kind folks like them gave me for weeks.

The dinner conversation was great. Between those two needle-ing back and forth with each other I learned a little bit about everything that happens around here. It seems the owner of the Kodiac’s Den prided himself on what and who he knew. It was just natural in his personality to talk about whatever came along and between the many people that stopped by as they traveled across the region he seemed at least know someone that knew someone on every topic I could think of. I had to hold my tongue to not get started on discussing my search. Maybe I should ask, but once I get started on that it seemed like it got hard to relate to most people because of my own inner turmoil. The first arrivals for the night ended both my debate and our dinner. It’s easy to see how accustomed to this life they both are. She encouraged me to eat my fill and not feel hurried; he stood and warmly greeted the three new entrants as one would greet some wily neighbor boys when they wander across alleyway.

Only a short while after the first three, several more young men arrive. All of them are fairly young and vary in their greetings from slapping one another on the back to a shout across the bar to “set ‘em up”. They all wear the same leather and earth-toned clothing and have obviously earned their retirement here tonight. I’m not sure if the main daytime work around here is livestock, farming, lumberjacking, or a mix. The country I’ve been passing through most recently spoke of the former two, but I thought I saw some woods ahead. Evening rolls on and I take in some limited conversation with some of the middle aged men that arrive later and I begin to get the feeling. I search my memory to find a story that would keep their attention and make the evening worth while for them and the kind couple who asked me to stay. Sorting through my trusty tales hasn’t been easy since the night at Callous’s fortress. I want so badly to tell stories like that, but have nothing prepared that could compare. Finally Kobi comfortably draws the attention of most of the men and gives me the opportunity to start out.

I take a spot standing close to an open window against the wall farthest from the bar and entrance. It’s a clear night and the breeze brought in a feeling like the clearness of the sky outside. I launch into a pub favorite while watching the reactions of the patrons that seem like they would be most likely to enjoy a good story. My choice is a story about a hard working boy who trades places with an impetuous son of royalty who was in love with a country girl. The comedy portion was definitely a hit and I can count on seeing Issa pausing in her constant duties whenever I hit a part concerning the girl and disguised young prince. I can’t dwell there for long before the rest of the crowd’s attention begins to wane. It’s just like I’ve always done it, and a good portion of my being still revels in the feeling. If only it wasn’t for that nagging sense of not comparing to another man’s stories. Nevertheless I finish with my first story in a shorter time than I would’ve liked, but a guy can never really control how long it takes to get across a story until he becomes comfortable with his listeners.

The place is getting fuller and some older men and even a few ladies have joined our company. While I waited for the proper time to start again many of them show me their appreciation in differing ways from buying me drinks that I had no desire to consume to telling me bits of their own history that they were reminded of while I spoke. It was a good feeling to have taken these people far from here for awhile to places they hadn’t seen (even though in reality they didn’t exist), and they appreciated it enough to say so. I look to Kobi for a sign and he crosses his arms with a big grin and then sweeps one arm out in a gesture of ‘go ahead’. I smile back and prepare myself for a second round. The mood was starting to quiet down so I chose to go with it; and push forward my understanding of this audience by bringing in some suspenseful material. A legend I suppose is what this type of story is called. I spoke of an immensely powerful phantom that had claimed a grand forest as his. The core material isn’t overly original, but I doubted most of these souls would have ever found their way far enough from here to have heard it before.

Just as I figured, it’s hard to go wrong with a classic when entertaining children and other simple folk, I suppose that’s how they become classics. I’m most of the way through the story and my thoughts begin to wander between the occupants of the room. I see that I have the attention of nearly everyone with the exception of a couple older fellows at the bar. Now it’s just a matter of how long to draw out the suspense before setting up an ending. Then he walks in…

…not as part of in my story, but through the same doorway that I had come in hours ago. It’s not exactly the same build that I remembered, but his gait is similar and the aura around him is as distinctive as the taste of water from one’s own home town. I’m struggling hard not to miss a beat in my storytelling, but all my powers of observation have left my listeners and I’m honed in on this new patron alone.

My senses desperately flail against the deep shadow of the hooded cloak that covered most of his features to take in every clue to his identity. This time the ending of my story is quite a bit shorter than I would prefer for a tale of suspense, but fortunately for me no one here has the faintest clue at my personal standards so I accept another round of appreciative claps and hoots as I make my way over to Kobi’s general area. For the last little while he has been sitting with Issa at a table just a couple of steps away from his bar counter. Now that I’m sure I’ve found my long sought-after man of mysteries, I’m afraid to approach him so to hedge my bets I try for some information on my quarry. I could hope that the two men knew of each other – every one else here seemed to.

Abruptly I break in from behind my host’s chair, “Kobi – will that man who has just came in and sat down on the end of the counter be telling any stories tonight?” I ask in an almost reverent tone.

He laughs softly a bit before responding, “I told you that you would be the only dedicated entertainment these folk have seen since Faulk’s oldest boy left us to do what you fellas do in the wide world.”

Issa adds from the chair next to him with a twinkle of a memory glimmering in her eye,

“Don’t forget to mention when Jim Donner broke his leg and his wife banished him here for four days because she didn’t care for him tuning up his instruments in the house. Jim would be so hurt if he found out you didn’t include him.”

The Kodiac’s owner looks back over his shoulder, where I hover a bit longer, so he can study my face. “He’s got something else on his mind than our stories,” is his reply diplomatically prompting me to share if I want to.

To me it sounds better than just waltzing over there, but I need to be careful, “Will he be here long?”

“I don’t know why you’re so interested in him,” the man leaned back in his chair, “but I recon that it would be alright to tell you he’ll be here until I get a chance to talk to him… if you tell me why you want to know.”

I stepped around and took a chair on one of the two remaining positions at the table, “Aren’t you gonna see if he wants something?”

“He’ll be fine until you and I get straightened out,” Kobi said sure of his answer, “besides he’s just here to take in the sounds and maybe pick up some bread and vegetables in the morning. Now what are you worried about?”

So far I could count on Issa to bail me out of situations like this with her husband, but this time she was pretending to not be listening (but failing miserably). “He may be the reason that I’ve traveled here . It’s not trouble or anything, but I need to find a man I saw once and ask him about his stories and then to be honest, I don’t know what. Haven’t you ever had one of those feelings like that?”

“I don’t have any reason not to trust you so far, and my wife likes you which count for a lot, seeing as she can pick out a lie while a person’s just thinkin’ of it... so I’ll talk about him even if it would be more proper of you if you just went and talked to him yourself.”

“I will and thanks again – I really owe you two. Is he a friend of yours?” I launch right into my questions.

“When he comes around he is - a good one too. His kind keep their word as a rule which makes them a lot less talkative, and he has a way of inspiring emotion in people in a quiet and subtle sort of way. Mostly when he comes around here he keeps to himself unless he can be helpful or he needs something bad enough to merit asking for it. We talk fairly often, but then again I talk to everybody. As far as the rest, you’ll have to find out yourself. It doesn’t feel right to talk about him when he’s not here to hear it,” Kobi says as he hefts himself up from his seat, “the rest is up to you.” Then he saunters back behind the bar, pours the man a tall water, and begins to talk to him like any other person that’s come in here today.

The phrase ‘his kind’ struck me as having some incredible possibilities. Otherwise, Kobi’s short description of this man deflated a lot of my visions of who it is that I’ve been so dedicated to track down. I shrug my shoulders a bit to dispel the tired disappointment that is threatening to take hold of me. It’s not so much that Kobi’s description isn’t interesting, but I guess in all the months between last I saw the story teller and now, I’d come up with a lot of expectations. Unconsciously grunting a cynical laugh, I finally notice the obvious conclusion that giving a professional tale weaver like myself many months of thought on a single topic is just asking for something larger than life to take shape. I wonder if I really do remember all the details of my last night performing for the deceased Master Callous as clearly as I thought I did. Maybe this hooded man isn’t anywhere near the man that haunted my memories. That’s all the extra courage I need. Excusing myself from the table and a somewhat confused Issa, I too made my way toward the wooden counter.

When I’m close enough, Kobi graciously gives me an open door, “Stele, this fella here will be our second guest tonight,” he says indicating me.

I make my best effort to look confident in setting my weight down on the stool next to him. It’s funny how no matter how hard a person might try, the first position he ends up setting down in will not be comfortable enough to last for long if he’s thinking about it. To try to cover for my awkwardness I shift my weight and extend a hand to the hooded man. He turns for just a moment to look me over and a sense of recognition washes over me at the same time that I’m realizing that this may not be the man that I seek. My disappointment almost overruns the warm familiarity of his presence.

Ignoring my hand and turning back toward Kobe and the bar he starts out first, “My friend here tells me that you pulled into town during the heat of the day with nothing to your name but the clothes on your back and a direction of travel.”

“Now! Where are your manners, you’re not supposed to tell other people what I told you about ‘em,” Kobi replies in a shocked tone, obviously flustered by this breach of unwritten rules.

Stele thinly masks a smile while he responds, “Relax, you’re around to correct me if I’m wrong.”

“That’s not the point,” is the Kodiac’s only answer.

I try to head off the predicted silence by entering into the conversation, “I’m afraid this may be a mistake. With the hood covering most of your face I think I mistook you for a man that I’m trying to catch up with.”

Stele holds his small cup with both hands and braces both elbows on the table. He pauses to take a small sip and after a pause responds, “Pardon the observation, but you look a little smaller than most bounty hunters that I’ve met.” His voice is measured and his face still hidden by the edges of his cloak.

Not only am I embarrassed, but becoming a little fearful. Whether Stele is the right man or not, I might have been foolhardy in thinking my survival at the banquet was more than just a stroke of good luck.

Taking up the slack made by my hesitation, the hooded man called Stele adds, “Who is it that you thought you were looking for?”

He doesn’t look tense, but I’d expect that anyone else listening including myself was getting there. To my further dismay I stammer while I speak, “Well, to be honest I don’t know his name…”

Not quite cutting me off, but without giving me any extra time to compose a renouncing of the title ‘bounty hunter’, he throws me another tough one, “Even more curious than your lack of size and equipment is your lack of target information…”

By now I’m running out of dumb things to say so I’ve decided to turn to Kobi hoping for him to read the look of helplessness on my face and get me out of this mess.

“… so taking all of that into affect, I have to conclude that you’re probably not a hired sword or at least not a very good one,” the hooded man finishes.

He softly pulls the covering back to his shoulders and finally turns to give me a chance to look at him. It didn’t help my anger at his little word game that he wore a soft demeanor and the barkeep was still chuckling a little at my nervousness. Just like his stride, the same background was there, but the features just aren’t the rogue storyteller’s.

“After all that,” I say to myself, “you’re not even the fella I’m looking for.”

“Should I apologize or be relieved?” is the good natured counter. There’s a change of mood.

While I motion him for another water I say to my chuckling friend, “are you sure this guy isn’t an entertainer, his tongue is easily troublesome enough.” I can feel myself relaxing back into the mood I held during my first story of the evening.

“So tell me, who is it that walks around looking so much like me that I got myself into this much trouble,” Stele asks good naturedly. Hopefully he’s done with the verbal humiliation.

“Remember now, I said that you reminded me of him, not vice versa,” I half way joke. “It was a guy that did some interesting things at a banquet I performed at a year and some months ago.”

Back to using flat tones he asks, “What sort of interesting things?”

Hoping that I’ve at least found another of those rare people who shared my experience, I start into a very short description of that night’s story. I watch for his smallest reaction as only a practiced communicator can. His interest grows and now he’s actually showing some signs of stress. Not seeing the reaction that I desire, I cut my description short at the end of the tale.

“Did anything else happen that night?”

“I wasn’t going to mention it, but when he got done, he pretty much tossed the joint, armed guards and all.”

“You and your stories,” Kobi huffed passively while working hard on looking like he’s polishing a glass and tidying up. Based on the way the place looked when I walked in today, I figure he is just finding an excuse to sample our conversation.

With a little tension in his voice this time, Stele asks another question, “pretty tall order; one man against a castle guard. How did you really come to find out about this?”

Back to square one, I’m nervous, but this time it’s not just me. “To be honest I’m not sure why so many of us saw it and were left to live. He was amazing and I don’t think eliminating witnesses would have been difficult for him. It almost would have made sense too, considering the search that went on afterwards. I kept tabs on it, and to my knowledge they never found anything but a rope hanging from the corner tower and a set of footprints down to the big river. No one could have survived a swim in there and it’s too small to hide a raft of any kind. I’m as puzzled as everyone else.” I hope that answer would pacify my companion’s stirring emotions.

Even more intrigued, “and you saw the man face to face?”

Shifting gears from self defense to remembering some intense memories, I don’t need any prompting, “How could I forget. The way he looked at me haunts me to seek him out. I don’t really look like the type that wanders for weeks on end without supplies or purpose without needing to, do I? I need to clear my mind, and to do that, I need to ask him what it all meant.” The shame of my life’s latest chapter pushes aside both the memory and my fear.

“It sound’s like a tough time for you. I’ll drop it,” is all that Stele has to say.

After a little bit of silence Kobi brings another patron over to the counter. Judging by his selection of personality, this is an experienced tavern owner’s way to diffuse a sour mood in the Den. Just grab the most animated person you can find and sit him with a couple of silent strangers. The result is an eventual transformation of reluctant laughter into hearty conversation; meanwhile troubles, whether you bring them in with you or brew them on the spot get put back on the shelf for at least a while longer.

****

When I wake up the next morning in the loft, I can feel the empty silence of the place. Stele and I had occupied the two small nooks upstairs across the hall from each other. While I head downstairs just as the sun makes its appearance over the eastern hills, I wonder how long he’ll sleep.

I guess I’m not the earliest riser. Issa has a small pack of provisions for me and a message. With a chuckle she tells me that I better clear out before her husband catches her giving me anything more (but invites me to stop in again “anytime”). As usual, she makes me smile. I thank her and head out the door, wondering how much time I’ve lost on my quarry. At the edge of town I open the note:

You’ll never corner the man you seek.

Find the sanctuary at the edge of the wood.

North on the narrow road.

I think I can help.

-Stele.

**** Chap 3 ****

I traveled all day. Could he really have meant for me to wander this far? I had almost given up several times, but every time something would come up to keep my interest ahead. Towards evening I become increasingly worried that I would be far off of the main road at sundown, but squinting ahead I can make out the vast wood and a cemetery with a small shelter in the middle. Shortly I find myself at the edge of that graveyard. It is everything that you would expect in a final resting place. The trees are skeletons of their former splendor, and the headstones add their blackened spotting to the unkempt grounds. Stopping to look at the stones with the various names and etchings gives me a bit of a shiver. It actually felt good to feel like that for a moment; I could compare it to a splash of cold clear water in a man’s face when he’s tired. He doesn’t want it, but the shock to the senses makes him feel more alive than before. Despite the failing sunlight, I decide to take a short detour past some of the more ornate headstones. Since I’m already hopeless as far as finding decent shelter I mentally accept spending the night in the sepulcher at the center of the cemetery tonight. That’s probably not good maners, but if there was a dwelling nearby to care, than I wouldn’t have the problem in the first place.

He sought fame and future

And died infamous at twenty four.

A good life her’s was

And like ALL good things,

It had to end.

Like he never was.

These people don’t play at words. Trying to head off the gathering deepness of my thoughts, I decide to check out where I would look for rest soon. The door is latched but not locked so I take a peak inside. I’m fortunate two nights in a row! Last night was free boarding and company in Estridge and tonight an unoccupied tomb. It may sound strange, but compared to some of my nights in my recent history, this would be great slumber. Without fear of predators and thieves, I could probably hope for another full night. My last thoughts are about where to go tomorrow morning…

****

It’s almost too bad that I’m losing my resolve to chase after this storyteller or Stele or whoever it is that I’m following, because the unique combination of my position, imperfections in the door, and the angle of the sunrise give me an early wakeup call. Not one to question fate, I decide to head out and see what comes natural. The air still has the morning coolness, and the graves look even more typical of how a child’s imagination would paint them in the morning mist. I decide that it’s too early in the morning to read more epitaphs so I make my way to the narrow road that got me here. Just outside the low iron fence gate I look down the road in both directions. I pause as I look back towards Estridge to wonder if I should retrace my steps and make sure that I didn’t miss the little sanctuary. Then with surprisingly little thought I turn towards the woods to see what lies within. I must really be slipping in my hopes to find the source of the story. I’m walking away from the best lead I’ve had since I started. I’m not sure why I feel this way. The only credibility the hooded man at the Kodiac’s Den had possessed was a general similarity to my quarry. I know nothing else of him. I continued along mulling over what I know and some of the more profound headstones from the night before. With all the walking I’ve done lately, I hardly even notice that I’ve assumed a comfortably brisk pace.

Before long, rather than entering the wood, the path turns left at the edge and skirts the outer brush line. These woods look like I remember the woods outside my hometown; the morning mist hangs a little thicker under the forest canopy. There’s a dent in the boundary up ahead with a fairly good sized building in it. Making it even more impressive is the rock wall that hides most of the yard from my view. I’ve seen people put up stone hedges in the front for some purpose I never understood, but this place is walled in on all four sides. It doesn’t look military or big enough to be a noble dwelling. I reason that if I can stop to check out the graves last night, I can at least try for a better look at this curiosity. The wall must not be intended to keep people out anymore; one of the iron barred gates hangs open. Out of respect, and hoping for any inhabitants to take notice, I stand outside just staring into the yard for a bit. Because it is tucked back into the trees, much of the fog is still intact and distorting my view. There’s already enough light to make everything more or less visible unless it is in the long lingering shadows of the morning. A spire projects up from the right end of the main building, and the roof is steep enough to be out of the ordinary. Because of this the building appears tall, but I’m sure that the inside contains not much more than a second story loft and a modest main floor. Small windows are spaced along the whole south side facing me. I gingerly slip through the gap between the gates and make my way toward the small doorway that is unobtrusively nestled near the corner to the left. The yard is unimpressive with a storage shed or two and no signs of recent traffic. I make a note of how the building seemed to spread out wider as I near the door. Unlike most I’ve encountered lately, this door gives me a little trouble opening. Though I’m not sure why, I try to keep my noise to a minimum. Something like this shouldn’t be that spooky considering I woke up in a tomb just a short while ago, but I have that instinctive feeling that there’s more here than my five senses are telling me so far.

The little door lets into a narrow hallway similar to the servant’s passage where I made my decision to invest myself in the story rather than following the cook that dragged me to safety at Callous’ banquet. Following an immediate right turn explains the similarity; this must also be a servant passage because now I’m in the empty kitchen. This should have set my nerves at ease. A quick inspection makes it apparent that this place hasn’t been used in a quite some time. But I’m still not ready to relax. There are a couple of other doors to choose from. I cross the kitchen to the far side and find this door to cooperate a lot like the first one. I make more noise than I would have liked and when it finally breaks loose it swings outward into a large room. Everything is as still as a sleeping child after a long day. Here the goal of the high roof becomes clear. The light takes on several colors as it filters through a very large stained glass window to fall on rows of benches all facing the slightly raised platform in the front. I stand in one of the corners far from the glass and platform. I can’t see the entire scene because of two low balconies jutting in from the back and sides of the room over at least the outside third of the seating. I make my way slowly along the back wall toward a center aisle taking it all in. My eyes scan down the pattern of the lit glass until I get to the bottom and stop short. My body comes to an abrupt stop and I freeze exactly where I am as I realize that I’m not alone.

Now I could see past the benches down the center isle to the front. The form of a man is face down on the lowest couple of platform steps. Most of his body is hidden beneath a sheet of plain grey fabric that spread over him like mourner’s blanket. The visible outline makes it hard to judge what position he’s in, but its steady rise and fall are unmistakably the result of something breathing. There is a low mumble coming from that direction, but to whom it is addressed remains unknown. I venture another step or two forward, softly and quietly, to try and verify that there isn’t more people up there that I’m not seeing. Perhaps I see someone’s head behind the piano to the left, but given a more thorough look it’s just some books piled on top; or maybe his companion is deeper in the shadows in an opposite corner from where I entered. My stomach sinks for a moment while I sweep my vision back to my right and over to where I started into this room. Had someone slipped around to cut off my only sure path of escape? That too proves to be just a jittery thought. While I bring my gaze to bear again on the stranger up front several ideas vie for center stage in my head: the note from the Kodiac’s Den had told me to look for a sanctuary; the curtains to the right of the colorful window seemed to be swinging softly in a non existent breeze; and a sudden realization of the absence of noise in the room. Given my situation the latter observation wins out easily and sends the other two aside to wait in the wings of my mind.

While I watch, the person up front stands to reveal what was previously hidden behind a headstone grey cape, his head of dark, tightly trimmed hair and the stern face of a man. During his rise the sound of sharpened steel scratching across wood flooring awkwardly rumbles through the silence. He turned towards me, first with his head and then with the rest of his figure. The cape is large enough to conceal everything else but his crudely made leather vest, a barely discernable amulet, and several straps crossing from one shoulder down to where his right hand must also be. Not being able to see another’s hands is really disturbing on first contact. I think to myself, ‘That’s why common people wave to one another, to avoid the dread that is creeping up into my throat right now.’ Desperately tearing through my thoughts again takes me to the idea that this could be the place where I was to meet Stele. I strain to look closer, but having the only light source in the room streaming in from behind him made it difficult.

Finally he speaks, slowly, clearly, and weary sounding, “You came. I had my doubts if you would follow that long.” Then after a pause, “Are you followed?”

Realizing that it was Mr. Stele who was putting on such a fierce presence, I felt once again that I have found the man that I sought in him, but again I wasn’t sure that I wanted to, “Why would anyone follow me?”

“You really haven’t seen much, have you? A better question would be where does a person go to not be followed?”

In my confusion I forget my fear, “I don’t understand…”

Before I get a chance to finish he cuts in again, “I know you don’t. I have spent a portion of my life making this place one of the few true sanctuaries in this region. You are welcome here, but if you’ve been followed I need to know now. Think hard,” he says in a cold unfeeling sort of voice.

Just glad to not hear those words directed at me or in angered tones, “What would I be looking for?”

He finally reveals at least his left hand by raising the arm with his palm toward me to command a tense silence. We both stand there, waiting for so long that I almost begin to see the whole thing as comical. He makes his way very slowly toward me. Then he stops about half way up the aisle. I watch his eyes close and his head move slowly from left to right as if blindly tracking a bat across the rafters.

I open my mouth to risk an impetuous comment, and just before the first sound comes out a clatter can be heard up in one of the balconies. Now Stele makes no effort to hide his right hand and the sword it holds as the man before me becomes the man behind me faster than I have time to panic at his sudden lunge. He continues right by me and throws his body against the grand double doors at the opposite end of the room from the sunshine. The doors quickly swing aside and Stele heads out of the main hall and into what I would guess is a receiving area. Without a better idea I head out after him. I halt in the center of the next room to take in another set of big doors straight ahead and the loft stairs on either side of the room. Like a crazed man Stele is charging up the stairway that run back over my left shoulder leading to the balcony seating above where I had entered the sanctuary from the kitchen. I don’t notice any other avenue of escape for whoever or whatever it is that he is headed towards, and so I do what I figure would be best. I go straight ahead, lifted the large cross bar that held the portal closed and burst out onto the dawn lit grass. I’m a little annoyed that I hadn’t taken the time to check around the building to find this obvious front door before I went in. The sound of shattering glass around the side where the cook’s entry had been quickly draws me around for a peak. As my view opens up to where I can see the gate for the outside wall a blurred shadow crashes into the iron bars and around the stone wall to be hidden from view. Meanwhile my acquaintance hits the ground after hurling himself through the same small window as his prey. He hits the ground with a roll and charges half way across the yard before slowing to a stop and driving his blade tip down into the lawn. We are back to another uncomfortable pause while he stares angrily out of the opening in the wall.

I wonder how different things would have been if he hadn’t been glaring in the direction of my only escape. I know I would have just disappeared if it would have been possible to do so unnoticed. Things would definitely been different…

… but they aren’t. I stand quietly for awhile and wait until he finally turns, grabs the hilt of his blade in his left hand, and walks back toward the sanctuary’s main entry. As he passes me, he lets out a neutral sounding, “That takes care of that topic for the time being.”

The unspoken invitation to continue our ‘conversation’ drags me reluctantly back around the corner and through both sets of large open doors and into the main hall. He continues up toward the podium in front saying, “So, what kept you coming?”

I hope a little of my annoyance with the cryptic questions shows through in my voice, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“We’re over a day’s journey from Estridge, you have very little raw information, but yet, you are here,” he said again sounding very neutral, “I just want to know why you came?”

I have to admit, at least internally, that it’s a good question. “I don’t have any connection anywhere. I can’t see beyond the same patterns around me anymore. Everyone is doing the same thing, heading in the same direction in their different ways, and I can’t get myself to just blend in without knowing where we’re all headed. I want to just KNOW, to not have to think about everything, to find the path that doesn’t just go ‘round until you fall over in the same circle where all of your ancestors and descendants have and will. To understand why I can do the things I do and if it even matters what I do,” I would have continued for a lot longer if he hadn’t stopped me. I even surprised myself with the sudden gush words to describe what I’ve been feeling for a long time.

His face and voice is no longer neutral, but shaped with compassion and sympathy, “…believe me friend, I do understand you. That is, however, not what I asked. Why me? Why here? Why have you come to this region?”

I took a deep breath. I’ve been down this road a hundred times, but what’s once more? Telling the story seemed to ease the emptiness that I have no defense for at the moment. I did the best that I could to recreate the most memorable portions of the grand storyteller’s tale adding my own commentary where ever I thought helpful. During which he took a seat in the front row and nearest to the aisle. I stayed on the platform pouring out everything I had in me. I didn’t actually care whether he listened or not, but I could tell that he was. Mostly he stared up at the window, occasionally he would nod as if in recognition, and once in awhile his view would sweep right linger there for a bit and then return to the window. All of this I only noticed by old habit. The acoustics in that place were wonderful, and I hadn’t really put my soul into my stories since before that night in front of the firelight. I was mildly exhausted when I finished and all I could do was slump down to sit on the steps in front of that high ceilinged hall.

Stele snaps out of his personal trance and takes me in with a look of surprise, “That is where it ends then? They have convicted the Prince and nothing more is said about it?”

I fight back the emotion that attempts to block my speech. Breaking with a long time tradition of personal pride I start with, “I have to tell you, that story is not my own. And the man from whom I heard it was attacked before I would find out if there was more.”

He smiles an off cue grin. “Then you don’t know? You’ve only heard it once,” he asked.

“I’ve met several others who have heard it and pieced some of it back together through talking with them, but it’s so hard to put such an elaborate epic back together without years of practice or some sort of intimate knowledge. Some men spend all of their lives perfecting one tale like that,” I replied, hoping he was done with this line of questioning.

“I don’t mean to spoil it for you with plain words, but I’m no bard like yourself. I can only state the facts: the Prince was banished to a most terrible place presumably to never return again and gave himself up to the judgment. The King poured out signs of his pain through His monuments and His true subjects went into hiding for three…”

I cut him off abruptly. “Can’t you see how important this is to me. Don’t add to what’s not yours and certainly don’t try to tell me that a great King like the one described in the story would allow such a thing just for a few extra peasants to acknowledge His rule. It just doesn’t fit right with the character the artist worked so hard to describe.”

Just as sternly as I spoke, he continues, “I can see that I will have to show you before I earn the right to finish your story. I tell you that I am not the man you seek, but I know well enough of him to know that he would not like you to give up. That’s a task with which I will be far more helpful than finishing your story. Are you willing?”

I think back over the facts: I hardly know this man or his intentions, he may or may not be crazy, I have followed hint after hint that lead to nothing but frustration, and I have no other options. “What are you proposing?”

Picking up on my acceptance, he solemnly predicts, “That is the most faith you will need, the rest will be facts, hard decisions, willpower, and help. We must leave here at once. Your guest will undoubtedly return and I cannot hold this place when they have the elements of surprise and a knowledge of the inside.” Before I have a chance to say anything in my defense, he continues, “Don’t apologize, without training you couldn’t be expected to know. I’ll have to return when I can wipe them all out at once and start fresh again.”

He sweeps up a small satchel that sat on the bench next to him. With a confident yet hurried voice he begins giving me instructions, “we’ll travel until the heat of the day tomorrow. That should buy us enough distance to effectively disappear to them. Just make sure you don’t leave them a trail whether you mean to or not. It’ll take time to explain, so just trust me and try to think twice about everything you do for the next day.”

We were already clear of the gates and headed further west along the same small path when he finished with his instructions. With the sun on our backs I symbolically swallow the uncertainty that tightens in my throat and prepare for maybe a dangerous chapter in my life. At least I can turn the page; that last one was getting tiresome.

**** Chap 4 ****

With so much on my mind I hardly notice the hours go by. Maybe my partner is as used to traveling alone as I am, because neither of us says a word. His pace is faster even than my usual, but not so much as to cause a problem. We stop only long enough to eat and once or twice affect repairs on my sandals. I guess they are more set in my old pace than I am.

Towards nightfall I begin to become uncomfortable in our mutual quietness. Not wanting to be the first to break the silence, I take some time to study him. I am surprised by our similarities. While much in our features is physically the same, we carry them quite differently. I have trained my face to convey as much emotion and information as possible when I speak; in contrast, his shows little besides scars, short stubble, and skin. His eyes are plenty animated, but just the eyes themselves. They dart constantly between the details of our environment, but the features around them move only during an occasional blink. We stand about the same height. Though tall isn’t the first word to describe me, I meet eyes easily with most men. Everything else is relatively average, the ears, jaw line, and brow are nothing memorable. For him it seems to give the comfort of remaining anonymous; to me it is a blank and flexible palette with which to practice my art.

Our similarities stop at the surface. I wear a slim cape that used to work well for adding flare to a story. Lately I keep it packed away unless I’m using it to support my head while I sleep. He also wears a mantle, but his differs in purpose. I can’t see anything he’s carrying in his hands or his baggage, if he has any. I see only the smooth motions of his arms as we continue to walk. His occupation is still a mystery to me, but like so much else in his methods, that cloak would be a good thing if one wanted to stay unknown. With that pressing on my mind, I decide it’s time to go out on a limb and see if I can peak beyond the figurative cloak. I’ll try the indirect route first.

“You asked what kept me coming,” the first phrase doesn’t come out very strong, so I try to rewet my mouth and continue, “Now I want to know why you gave me directions.”

His reply is foreseeably cryptic, “Where you gave me a wordy and complex answer; mine will be shorter, but just as difficult: I knew you would come.”

As usual with him, I don’t understand. I tell him so.

His next reply is the hand hole that I am maneuvering for, “I try not to explain my actions beyond doing what I know to be right in the moment, and trust the larger details to someone who sees more of the big picture than I do.”

“So you are part of an army or organization of some sort?” I ask.

He verbally pauses before answering, “If we are to be together for any length of time, you will see me work with several groups. A couple of these might even appear to function like a little militia. But no, I do not belong…” he draws the last word out a bit and pauses to mask a mix of emotions before continuing, “…to any of them. You will find some of them to be useful, and many rather enjoyable. I cannot, however, rest entirely in any of them yet.”

More with the mysteries, I’m not sure where to go next. Just asking ‘why not’ was too obvious. I take a tactical retreat and give a barely audible affirmative, “huh.”

Since questions don’t seem to help in understanding this man I tried talking about my views on things to see what he reacted most strongly to. Eventually he cut in.

“Fascinating topic; great points; I have point-of-view disagreements; but more importantly for the time being, did you notice what you were doing?” His voice is softer than usual and tense. “The volume of your voice has been growing markedly louder. I suggest we walk faster for the time being.”

Wondering if Stele is maybe a bit paranoid I respond, “No, I didn’t notice. I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”

His posture is beginning to make me feel jumpy. Until now, he has stood to his full height thereby making him appear an inch or so taller than me, and predominately kept his eyes on the horizon ahead. Now a slight crouch steals a couple of inches off of his size and judging by his head movements he is systematically scanning everything around us.

The words come slowly and sound like they have weaved their way though a stream of other thoughts before reaching his lips. I think he is trying to calm me by continuing with the thought line, but he is obviously distracted. “Like I said, I appreciate the points… I’ve never even heard some of it put the way you just did. But your views are all from such an impersonal position…”

Not only does he stop speaking there, but he stops walking. I can’t tell if the feeling in my gut is the sixth danger sense that people seem to have or if it was just his behavior making me nervous. I walked around him, turned, and stopped directly from him. I wanted him to know that I was not committed in any way to coming with him; that I was sure that I could find what I was looking for somewhere else if he kept doing strange things without some sort of explanation.

Planting my feet and making sure that I spoke clearly and deliberately I say, “Are you…”

His interruption is rude and quick, “Hush, your voice is… Where is that cloak that you carried with you earlier?”

“I was speaking!” I reply angrily.

He was calm but showed signs of being internally agitated, “Where is your cloak, and on the topic, the bits of sandal you cut off earlier while you fixed your sandals?”

I would later remember this as the first of many times that he appeared to me to be coming undone. For no other reason than fear of the wild look that is coming over him, I decide to drop my indignation and answer him before I found out how unstable this stranger really is.

“I don’t see what it has to do with how you’re acting, but I left the extra leather by the stump or whatever it was that I was sitting on when we cut them. The cloak I must have left somewhere in the last few hours. I had it the last time we stopped and grabbed those purple berries, because I remember getting some juice on it. Oh I remember! I must have…”

Again to my annoyance he broke in, “Good enough, stop talking. You will again have to trust me and be silent.”

We stand there for a little while. I wait impatiently for my chance to rebuke him for being so rude and wonder how long it would be until then. Even the disturbed can’t wait forever. It still isn’t morning, but that hour when the stars are extra bright and you can almost feel the dew settling on your clothes. The heat of the day’s travel are completely forgotten and a morning chill crept though my body.

Suddenly Stele spoke a couple of words that startle me with their suddenness, “We’ll talk about you rethinking your actions later.” He then straightened to his full height and turned to face the woods.

That short statement in his instructions from when we had just started out replay in my mind, ‘don’t unconsciously leave them a trail’. Several questions that I have, up until now, chosen not asked in order to appear confident and in control became far more important. Why would I do that?; and Who do you mean by Them? are foremost.

I became keenly aware of my surroundings just then. The edge of the forest was still just a short distance from the road, in the other direction was a great flat plain. Looking in that direction I say nothing but the occasional tree and because I can see the stars all the way to the ground ruled out any mountains or lighted villages over that way. The path that we had been on all of yesterday and through this night had been the same scenery. The road itself was a fairly wide, hard packed, dirt pathway with a bit of brown sage grass on either side. Towards the plains it faded quickly into dry dirt with patches of weeds scattered randomly throughout the ground. Toward the dark wood the low grass grew more healthy as it approached the edge of the tree line. The trees themselves at the edge were shorter than what the rest of their kind deeper inside the forest. It was hard to see much of anything beyond the edge because of the bushes and underbrush the consistently followed the border between plains and trees.

This description I could have easily rendered from my memory after the many hours of unchanging scenery. What disturbed my senses now are the small bursts of motion and out of place starlit shadows that I could make out through the underbrush. The night air was damp and very cool. Sound traveled easily and while the ones approaching did exceptionally well hiding their approach, it was near impossible to evade notice if one was to stop and listen as we are. Now I understand my strange companion’s actions.

I dread the inevitable moment when we would no longer hear any of the noises. I suspect that we will have a momentary face off when whatever they are reaches the edge and stops to size up the situation. My fears of wolves or a bear or some other nocturnal predator became wishes as the forms of several figures emerged into the clear. I dare not try to describe them in detail as my memory thankfully will not allow total recall of the encounter. Five or six of them break through the underbrush without hesitation and proceed across the 100 meter or so gap between them and our road. They were shorter than an average man and to summarily describe their features I have to choose the word grotesque. Don’t apply mental pictures of mold or stagnant water to try for a feeling of this grotesque, but say a wild eyed rabid dog, or the face of a person who embodies anger and evil intent. That is the best I can do to provide a starting point for your imagination. You can guess at my first impulse.

“Do not run or they will hunt you,” Stele said matter-of-factly and with very little emotion coming through with the words.

I still can’t exactly remember if he said hunt or haunt, but it makes no difference. This man was the only thing between me and whatever had come upon us. No longer concerned in the least bit about appearing confident, I sheepishly and tensely make my way from Stele’s side to behind him. By the tilt of his head and his overall posture I can’t tell if he is waiting for them to approach us or for me to take off running. In the haze of mind that comes with a situation beyond my control I decide to not move and let the situation run its course; that is, barring any opportunities of escape that may arise.

They are not in any hurry, it takes a minute or so before we are surrounded by these things. One of them speaks, but the language is not familiar to me. While I can’t make out the words, the meaning is oddly clear. They are here for me, not Stele, and demand that he step aside. I’m too numb with fear to react.

“He only leaves from me if he voluntarily takes his leave of me. I have my place here,” Stele spoke out in a booming voice.

The reply from the previous speaker was almost gleeful in a bloodthirsty sounding way. Then the same ugliness lashed out furiously and with explosive speed. The weapon he used moved to fast to be identified, but it covered the few feet between the two without the wielder having to step very far forward. My protector moved just as quickly, but had just the slightest lag between his reaction and the start of the attack. Twisting and leaning, but hardly changing his footing, Stele dodged the bulk of the single overhead slash and only the tip of blade grazing his chest was the price for not moving out of the way. Then the attacker just stood there.

Several seconds later the one standing just to the side took a swipe. This time a hard lean away from the blow cut a small rip in his upper arm. The blood trickled where Stele’s cloak had been swept aside in his previous effort. For several minutes this sick game went on with each antagonist taking their turn at my travel partner. Occasionally he managed to get completely clear of their blows, and rarely, he would have to throw himself in their path to push me behind him if a slash came too close to my body. In my utter terror, I did not move under my own power this whole time.

Then they all took a step back, widening the pentagram between them. With relief, the thought slowly crossed my foggy mind, ‘this is it, they will finally end us, and then I can sleep.’ But very similar to how I’d seen my partner moments earlier they strain to take in the surrounding noises. Unlike earlier, however, it only took them only an instant’s worth of concentration to notice that a new player was already standing clear of any cover at the edge of the wood. My vague memory shows little more than a human figure, slight in build, and completely concealed in a light gray, hooded robe. My mind slows down further here and I remember nothing else until several minutes later.

****

Stele turns to me and slumps to the ground where I am already on all fours staring at the dirt in front of me. “Are you alright?” He asks with compassion in his tone.

I can’t respond. I’m too busy vomiting from the stress of it all.

When I am through, I’m told that we need to keep traveling until we can find a place to stay. “We don’t need to worry about staying ahead of your pursuers for now. You should take some water to replace what you’ve lost. Take my canteen and drink what you need.”

I turn to see him. He is on his knees now too. I expect him to offer the water to me, but he doesn’t make a move. Then I realize what he’s asking of me. I edge over to him and ease his tattered cloak aside. As I had guessed, the little jug is slung under his side by one of the straps that crisscross to the opposite shoulder. He flinches as I try to ease the strap over his head and around his back. Rightfully so, I might add, everywhere I tried to maneuver it there was blood soaking through his undergarments.

I decide I don’t need the water that bad. “You need help,” I say, again growing numb in my frustration at not knowing what to do.

He replies wearily, “None of the cuts are very deep from what I can still feel. We just need shelter by late morning or the fatigue and the heat will finish what they started for both of us.”

I help him up as gently as I could. I remember a couple of buildings that we had passed earlier that night and were just a short ways out onto the plain. Since I don’t know the land and my partner is too tired to say otherwise, I think that would be a safer bet than continuing on.

We interrupted the family during an early morning breakfast and though they were far less friendly than Kobi and his wife, they could not refuse rest for a man in as bad a shape as Stele. I had to give them a couple of Stele’s personal effects in trade for a sponge and some warm water. My companion didn’t seem to mind as long as I didn’t give them one particular item. It takes a hard man to require trade for simple first aid supplies, but I suppose living this far out in dry times makes some things reasonable for a man in a way that I couldn’t understand without a family or home of my own. They led us to what could be a child’s room and I look longingly toward the bedding. First I need to at least get the blood matted clothes off of Stele, who had by now become almost delirious with exhaustion. I was impressed that he even kept himself upright while I peal back his shirt and upper layers of clothing. He was right, most of the cuts were very near to the surface. Because of how numerous they are it was hard to tell where the wounds stop and the blood begins. When I finally get enough room to begin cleaning him up a bit I notice something that blows my mind. This is not the first time something like this has happened to him. I see the evidence of similar but older wounds traversing across his back, arms, and chest in a webbed pattern of raised scar tissue. This is not the time to ask, but I’ll put that on my mounting pile of questions. I do a short and admittedly shoddy job of cleaning the wounds. When I’m through I finish stripping him of all but the very basic clothing. To further my perplexity with this man, I finally find where he had hidden the weapon that I knew he must have on him somewhere. A short blade rapier was still strapped to the outside of his right lower leg. The pants that he wore were cut down the side and then sewn together in a few places to hide it, but with just a quick jerk on the strings that held the gap together it came undone. I assume that with a little practice, one could get real quick at getting access to it. I put it in his boots to hopefully keep it out of sight of our hosts.

I try to lead him to the bed, but he stubbornly makes efforts toward the window. He slumps into sitting gingerly against the wall just inside the window and remaining barely in the morning light. I take the opportunity to pass out in the undersized bedding and then everything is comfortably black.

**** Chap 5 ****

The commander spoke out of turn, “I don’t like it. I can’t protect you if I can’t be near you. I know better than to question your judgment, but I have to tell you what I think. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but you plan on bringing no weapons and no armor. It is completely irrational.”

“I appreciate your concern general, but it has to be this way. The success of the mission makes it necessary. If it makes you feel better, you and your men may stay as near by as you are able to without compromising your secrecy. I will signal the moment you are needed.”

“By the command of your Father the King I will do this.”

The Prince took off the rest of last of his armor and turned it over to his armor bearer. “Keep this well, I will need it again another day.” And with that, he donned some humble wanderer’s skins and as a symbolic act took off the crown that he had worn since as long as anyone’s memory could recall. It was a single gold band with several of the most precious jewels in all creation attached to the front. Its simple design was testament to the reality that he had, up until now, wore it all the time and everywhere. He held it in his hand for a moment in silent consideration; then he looked toward this, the earliest of the towns that he would visit and without looking back handed it off to someone to keep it in their care.

The troops showed their training by either quickly disappearing into the surroundings or changing into clothes that would blend in with the various groups that they would encounter and heading out ahead of the Prince. One detachment was marching past the commander of the armies and he stopped them. “I have special orders for you. You are to seek out a few of the local residents and tell them of the honor that is coming to the people of this land tonight. Do not go to the magistrate or the governor, but just find someone nearby. I know, I don’t understand any more than you do, but we have our orders and at least we are allowed to do this much. Give them greetings and let them know that the Prince of the lands has arrived and that he has come in peace. These are the orders of the Great King as a gift to the Prince, His son, to ease the transition and remind him of the purpose of his mission. Tell them where they may find him and that he will not look as they might expect. What they do with what you tell them must be their choice.”

“Yes, sir. It will be our privilege to announce the coming of the Prince. We will begin searching immediately,” replied the leader of this group above the excited murmuring of his fellow soldiers.

The Son had already started down the path toward the village, but was apparently in earshot. He turned back and smiled toward his general and the detachment, gave a nod, and turned to continue on his way.

The Prince passed through the village square and was hardly noticed. If it weren’t for the few that were found by the detachment of the King’s soldiers and a few notable stragglers it would have been completely uneventful. Some of those who found out who was coming caught up to him and showed their gratitude at his visit, but most of the town slept on.

The next morning, the town’s mayor found out that a man of importance had passed through his village without paying their respects to him at his chambers. This was against the local customs and traditions of the land. At this he became enraged and brutally threatened the people of the town until one of them would give up this man.

The commander watched from his cover at the outskirts of the village. He stood next to a short tree in the shade of its branches. His hand grasped one of the lowest limbs at its base before it swept just over his head. His mood went from saddened to enraged as the day went by. By sundown, his attitude toward the whole mission was becoming more and more dubious. He almost wished that the Prince had not moved on before sunrise. Then he would have an excuse to put this small town governor in his place. For anyone to be arrogant enough to require the Son of the King to pay their respects to a petty local ruler was far too ignorant to ever be allowed any power. The lifelong military man reminisced for a bit over the beautiful lands back home and the peace that the King’s rule had maintained for as long as he had been around. For the honor of the King, the mission would continue, whether anyone understood it or not.

From the outside it’s hard to determine what virtue was in the end more successful in staying the hand of the general, his loyalty to the King or the discipline that he had honed in his many years of service, but he made up his mind to move on. Besides, the Prince and his covert escort were already several hours up the road from here. He gave the little tree a stern shake before he turned to head back into the wood to mobilize his remaining hidden detachments.

****

I awake slowly with a feeling of contentment. I have no idea where I am, but I am warm and it is quiet. The faces of the night before were a distant memory, and the man I met in the sanctuary… at the thought of him I really wake up. I look around to see if he was nearby and I take in my surroundings. I didn’t catch most of the details of the room the morning we came in, whenever that was. It must be a child’s room. All of the furniture is very short and there are wooden oddities that must be toys scattered around the perimeter by the walls, but I don’t see Stele. The window is open and a light breeze is coming from that direction. I scramble towards it wondering if he had fallen out or been taken out of it, this sends a shiver down my spine, and am just starting to call curses on myself for having left him where I had. An arm stretches out across the window from outside and around the corner into my field of view. I stop my breath and watch as the hand goes through a half waving motion and eases back down and out of sight. “Don’t be so hasty,” comes the voice that I wanted to hear, but still hadn’t gotten used to.

I am already very close to the wall so I only have time to ease up my momentum a little before my top half is outside and looking at Stele sitting on the eave with his back resting against the shutter. He has the same calmness in his voice that I had recognized that first night in the tavern. It’s still not real strong sounding, but has very little of the wavering that I expect in someone who is very ill. “I had to come out here to get some cool air on my skin. I’ve had the door closed in the room every since the little boy came in earlier to grab some of his things. We had a nice talk, a lot different than his father he is. I made sure some of what we said floated out into the hallway. I’m almost sure the parents were out there listening, so I made the most of it to lighten their mood. I’m sorry if raising my voice woke you.”

Without any recollection of the incident I reply, “I barely heard you.” I hide a bit here by not telling him that I have been so out of it that I don’t even know how long we’ve been here.

“I hoped so,” he trails off a bit, “you barely moved.”

“Haven’t you slept at all,” I ask him as I inspect the threshold and consider heading out onto the roof too.

“Outside of the little guy comin’ in and when I moved out here I’ve been resting pretty solid since you got me upstairs. Thanks by the way. Not everyone would have been able to get us in here and clean me up being as shell shocked as you were,” he says letting appreciation color his words.

A period of silence follows. It seems kind of out of the moment to go back to sleep. I take a place in front of the other shutter and venture the question, “So, how did you get here? You obviously aren’t a stranger to stuff like what happened to us the other night. What is your story? If I’m gonna be following you to who-knows-where for you-haven’t-said-how-long, could I at least ask who I’m supposed to be trusting.” That came out wrong. After protecting me from a pack of bandits and giving me the best hope of easing my mind I’ve had in a long while, I could probably have picked a more neutral sounding question than that.

“I’m a little glad you asked. This will eventually work into a trade you know,” he chuckles a little at his half truth, “I assume if I tell you a bit about myself I can gain the right to ask you some things later. Besides, maybe you can make a better sounding story out of it than I will and tell it back to me someday.” Appropriately our roost gave us an eastward view of the path back to the sanctuary, Estridge, and all the rest of the territory that was familiar to me. We were looking into the past.

Without waiting for a response from me he started to tell of parts of his past. He’s fine at making a summary statement, but putting together a longer story proves to be a bit more difficult for him. He was not, however, lacking in content. I have been true to his request and taken some liberties to reconstruct the story in my own words. My recollection of the exploits of his younger days in the arena of gladiatorial combat along with the shaping events of his past shall hopefully be included with the rest of my journaling in due time.

**** Chap 6 ****

Stele went quiet a few moments ago. I suppose he was finally overcome with too many past memories to continue trying to put them all into words. It’s kind of funny how people look a little different after you feel like you know them. I still knew little of who this man was and very little of his more recent history. I knew that he had formal training in a form of combat practiced in the games. I’d seen a few of these matches and knew that they were largely just for show in our region, but it’s said that many of the gladiators went on to be fierce warriors because of their training. Either way, the competitors took years of discipline and constant dedication to gain enough notoriety to reach the upper levels of competition. Much of the story was drawn against that backdrop. He had also mentioned the impact of several mentors, some of whom were connected to his combat training and one or two others that had generally guided him through his years of growth.

I have plenty to think about now. It’s strange how the dark makes people more talkative; especially on nights like this. The air still carries some of the day’s warmth. I suppose it’s a point of view thing: to one man it was another day without rain and relief from the heat, to another it’s the drought that makes the sky so clear night after night. After probably a half an hour of contemplation and staring into the starlit sky, Stele speaks up and mentions that we should get some sleep before morning. I agree, while wondering what happens in the morning, and make my way back inside. Stele still appreciates a little help getting himself inside. It seems like he’s able to move fairly well, but every time he has to bend or stretch the skin around the wounds he tightens his jaw.

The bed feels so comfortable even though I’ve only been away from it for a few hours. As I’m getting comfortable Stele grabs a spare wooly blanket and begins to ease himself down on the other side. Of course, he should have the bed.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” I say to him as I get up to begin searching for a nice piece of floor.

He replies, a little confused, “What do you mean? This bed is easily big enough for three. It’s pretty doubtful that I will move much tonight.”

“Where I come from, guys don’t share beds. Girls maybe; but not guys – not even if no one will find out.” By this time I’m already standing off to my side of the bed, “You go ahead, I’ll catch some floor. It’s only a few hours until morning anyway.”

Still a bit puzzled, he says the last words that I will hear on this day of my life, “Suit yourself, I’ll see you when the rooster crows.”

****

The next morning the room is already bathed in the light of the morning star when I feel a nudge. I mechanically raise myself up and try to help put the room back the way I remembered it to have been originally. My acquaintance looks to have been up for awhile already. Most of his clothing is either back on his body or rolled up and tied together with a leather cord similar to the one that held his canteen at his side.

The parting with our hosts is definitely more cordial than our greeting, but that’s all relative. I thank them with as many words as I can before my companion gets me out of the door and down the path that winds around to the road headed west. I look back after we are out of the yard. The scene is not what I expected, but both adults were standing on the porch to watch us go and the little boy sat right where Stele had been for awhile the night before. The way he sat could have been a perfect mimic of the posture of my wounded friend, and even stared away to the east much the same. I had to laugh, and though of how intentionally our conversations had dwelt on things that would excite a young boy’s fancy. I could almost swear that I saw a tight pressed smile on Stele’s lips.

To confirm my suspicion, he declined to retort when I say with a smirk, “You dirty dog.”

“I’m told there is a village up ahead. We’ll stay there for awhile. To be honest, I’m sure we haven’t completely shaken your not-so-friends from the other night, but they rarely risk a direct confrontation in a place with more than a few witnesses. It’s to their advantage in the big picture to stay out of the site of most.”

“How do you know so much about them,” I ask.

“I suppose we have enough time between here and there. By now, you’ve seen enough to be ready to hear parts. You’re a pretty smart fellow. I’m guessing once you get past the initial shock of it, this won’t be that hard an idea to grasp.