The Storyteller’s Wake

By SSG Michael B. Jackson

It was, the stranger thought, the most curious memorial service he’d ever seen.  Instead of being held in the local temple or church, it was held at the old man’s favorite inn, a place where he’d spent many an hour in his autumn years.   Instead of a somber atmosphere and a sober eulogy, there was a festive mood.  Mead and ale flowed freely, and happy recollections of the old man, told by friends and acquaintances, circulated about the room.   
The casket, open and gaily decorated, stood near the front door and inside lay the old half-elf himself.  Just the hint of a smile seemed to play about his lips, much as it had in life, and to a casual observer he might almost have seemed only to be sleeping.  Or, many of those assembled thought wryly, perhaps simply resting his eyes while he thought up a new limerick or composed an amusing song.  
Such had been the storyteller’s trade.  His gentle nature and quick wit had endeared him to everyone for the nearly half a century he’d resided in the little hamlet, enjoying a quiet retirement after the adventures of his youth.  Generations of the village children had grown up hanging onto his every word as the kindly old man had spun tales of fantastic creatures and far away lands, of eternal love and harrowing sacrifice, of heroes larger than life and villains blacker than night.  
The old man was a master of his craft, and, like the storytellers of legend, had the ability to bring his words to life in phantasmal images and sounds, ephemeral weavings of gossamer magic that never failed to dazzle and delight.  The old man would be sorely missed, beloved as he was by nearly all.  
But the nature of his wake had been his own idea.  He’d said many times over the years that he didn’t want some surly, sour old priest chanting over his casket while people who should be celebrating his life wept and moaned over his passing.  He’d said that he wanted those who’d known him to simply be happy that he’d lived, not sad that he’d passed on.  
In the main, it seemed that his wish was being honored.  Most of those in the inn, while obviously wistful, were at least taking part in the celebratory spirit of the wake.  In fact, only one person seemed outside the festive mood.
Leaning on the casket, head bowed and weeping softly, stood one of the most striking figures the stranger had ever seen.  Her hair was the color of burnished gold, and fell in soft waves past her shoulders and halfway down her back, almost concealing the delicately pointed ears that only just poked through.  She was tall and slender, and fair of face and form, as were all who carried the elven blood, which the stranger thought must run pure and untainted in her veins.  
Her eyes, blurred by tears though neither swollen nor reddened as a mortal’s might be, were a disconcertingly lovely shade of violet, a color he’d only glimpsed before in those few moments when the sky slowly transitioned from ebony to azure as the sun rose in the morning.    
But she was no fair, wilting flower, he could see.  For over each shoulder, he noted, protruded the finely wrought hilts of two long swords, the sheathes of which crossed over on her back over the deep black, subtly embroidered cloak she wore.  At her waist were a paired set of elaborately crafted daggers, and an oddly made belt with many small pouches and pockets.  As well, she wore a number of odd items, rings and bracers and such that the stranger presumed must be enchanted simply by their look.
Overall, she had the look of one skilled in arms, but some air she carried made the stranger certain that she was more than a dabbler in the magical arts as well.  Who she was, and why she should be so deeply moved by the Storyteller’s passing, he didn’t know.  But his curiosity, always a curse to him, drove him to find out.
“Your pardon, milady,” he said softly, stepping forward tentatively.  She looked up at him sharply, her violet eyes piercing him in the appraising gaze of someone used to sizing others up instantly.  For a moment he was taken aback, unsure if he’d raised her ire with his unsolicited advance.  Elven tempers were legendary, after all, second only to those of the dwarves, and an elf’s moods were as mercurial as the ocean’s waves.
But after a tense second, she relaxed, and in a quietly lilting voice said, “What is it that you want, good sir?  I’d prefer to be left alone with my grief at the moment.”
The stranger smiled wistfully, and said, “That’s the point of my interruption, I’m afraid.  I don’t want to sound presumptuous, milady, but I believe it was the Storyteller’s wish that this be a festive occasion.”
Frowning now, the elven woman said derisively, “Festive?  Good sir, I can understand the celebration of a life, rather than the mourning of a death.  It’s the elven way.  But this!  I- There was no way I could have prepared for this.  It just came too soon.”
“But milady,” the stranger said, vaguely incredulous, “It’s my understanding that the Storyteller had lived for over two centuries!  In fact, I overheard more than a few of the old graybeards and grandmothers here recounting stories of how he’d captivated them with his tales when they were children!  Just his retirement spanned nearly a human lifetime.”
But the faerie creature before him just shook her head slowly, fresh tears like clear diamonds falling from her eyes.  “Two centuries,” she said slowly.  “So long to the races of man.  But just a warm summer’s day to my kind.  We don’t even bother to keep track of the years as you do, they’re not important to us!  Only the seasons.  Gods, it passed by so quickly.”
A suspicion was forming in the stranger, an explanation for this poor, lovely creature’s anguish.  But he wasn’t certain yet.
“You knew the Storyteller in his youth, then?” He asked carefully.
The elven woman gave a short, humorless laugh, and said, “In a manner of speaking.”  And then, staring off into space, a wistful smile graced her countenance as, recollecting, she continued.  “It seems only a season ago, he and his siblings came into the world, all pink and wrinkled and utterly adorable.  And then it all blurs together for me.  Suckling them at my breast.  Watching as they took their first toddling steps.  Teaching them their first words, in both the elven and human tongues.  Watching as they grew tall and strong, learning various trades and arts from their grandparents and I and others.  In no time at all, they were grown, as mortals measure such things, and they went out into the world, finding adventure of all sorts.”  She paused, swallowing back tears, and with a shuddering sigh continued, “And then, before I knew it, they were old.  Old!  And I was still just past girlhood as my people recon things, barely old enough for children of my own.”
The stranger just stared at her, speechless, feeling her agony wash over him.  And then she continued.
“Before much longer, they began to die.  First his siblings, and now him.  He was the last.”  And then, in a broken whisper she finished, “And now I have nothing.”
Tentatively, the stranger reached out a hand and placed it upon her arm, unsure whether it would be welcome or not.  But unlike many of her kind, she seemed to lack what humans called ‘elven haughtiness’, and accepted his gesture of comfort for what it was.
“You were his mother,” he said quietly.
She nodded, sobbing softly.  “No childhood should be so short,” she whispered.  “I laughed and ran and played by the sea shore for more than a hundred of your years before I was considered even a young adult among my people.  But my children were grown and gone before even twenty years had passed.  And then the rest of their short lives just blew past me like a spring breeze.  I didn’t even realize what was happening until they were gone.”
The stranger nodded slowly, and then said, “There are great gulfs that separate the faerie races from the mortal.”
She laughed bitterly, and said, “But not so great that they can’t be bridged by the act of love!  That’s what’s so unfair, good sir.  That a man and an elf might fall in love, or even simply engage in a brief tryst, and produce children so caught between both worlds!”  Shaking her head, she said, “It had to be even worse for them than it is for me.  Watching human companions and lovers grow old and die while they went on, but having a mother and grandparents who, in their apparent youthfulness could have been their own children.  Where is the fairness in that, I ask you?”
The stranger sighed, and said, “As I’m sure milady is well aware, not all things in this life are fair.  But, I’ve found in my short time, there is, in most things, balance.”
Frowning, the elven woman said, “Balance?  Where do you see balance in this, then?”
The stranger smiled just slightly, and said, “I believe I have an answer for you, dear lady, but first might I ask a question of you?”
Looking at him curiously, she said, “That would depend on the question, I suppose.”
He nodded, and said, “Naturally.  But all I desire to know is your name, milady.”
The elven woman studied him curiously for a moment, looking, he thought, for any sign of duplicity or menace she might find.  He was sure that she knew, as he did, that there was power in names.  But, as he hoped, she saw that he intended no harm.  
“My name,” she said slowly.  “In the Elven tongue, it’s pronounced Ael’i’asandah C’el-Mi’Yat.  In the tongue of this land-“
“Allisande Swift-Sword,” the stranger said slowly, and then, “Or that’s one possible interpretation, though the word ‘mi’yat’ can be refer to almost any kind of sharp weapon.  Even,” he said wryly, “the tongue, with the proper inflection.”  And, finally, grinning mischievously, he added, “Dare I ask which interpretation your parents had in mind, milady?”
The faerie woman was non-plused for a moment, and then, smiling slowly, she said, “Considering the sort of child I was, good sir, I think they might have had both in mind.”  And then, questioningly, “You speak the Elven tongue.  Are there elves near your home?”
The stranger shook his head slowly, and said, “No, sadly there have been no elves in our lands for as long as anyone can remember.  They moved on when our forefathers began to work the woods too harshly, and have yet to return now that we know better.  But one can hope.”
Allisande cocked her head slightly, and said, “How is it, then, that you speak our language?  It’s not easily learned, even when taught by an elf.”
Smiling oddly, as though holding a secret of some sort, the stranger said, “The Elven tongue has been spoken in my village, by a few, at least, for generations.  Preserved and passed on for posterity, as it were.”
Seeing Allisande’s puzzled look, the stranger’s smile broadened, and he said, “May I tell you a story, madam?  Such things are, as they were for your son, my trade.”
Nodding slowly, she said, “Go ahead.  I have the feeling that I might find this tale of interest.”
The stranger chuckled softly, and said, “I certainly hope so, milady.”  And then, beginning his yarn, he said, “Many years ago, more than a century, in fact, my village was nearly wiped out by a great evil.  A dwarven community, in the nearby mountains, had recently dug deeper into their subterranean halls than ever before.  And in so doing, released something black and foul and ancient.  It overwhelmed them before they could do anything to stop it, and then it spilled out, coming for us as well.”  He paused for a moment, either collecting his thoughts, or simply for theatrical effect, of which Allisande wasn’t sure.  Continuing, he said, “All would have been lost, then, but for a band of adventurers who happened through.  Three half-elven brothers and their sister, the tales tell us.”
There was a gasp from Allisande, and she whispered, “My children.”
The stranger nodded, and continued.  “As such things often come to pass, they arrived only just in time.  The blackness from the mountains was all but ready to engulf us.  But they, working together in their various ways, drove it away.  And, more, called on higher forces that either destroyed it altogether, or at least bound it back up again.  Whichever, not only were we saved, but the dwarves as well.  Much to their chagrin, I might add.”
She smiled knowingly, and said, “Oh, I’m sure that dwarven clan-leader was elated at having himself and his people rescued by a band of half-elves.  Did his dwarven pride ever recover, I wonder?”
The stranger laughed, and said, “In time.  But pride or no, they were as grateful as we, and a grand celebration was staged in the dwarven clan-halls.  It marked a great day when dwarves, men and those of elven blood all feasted together in those mines.”
The stranger felt a sympathetic pang for Allisande as he saw the pride glowing on her face at his words.  She must have loved her children dearly, he realized, making her loss even greater.
“That’s the end of the exciting part, I’m afraid,” he said.  “But there is a bit more, if you’d care to hear, milady.”
Voice choked with emotion, Allisande said, “Oh, yes, good sir.  Most definitely yes.”
Clearing his throat, the stranger continued.  “After a few days, as most adventurers do, they were ready to move on.  All save one, that is, for, during those few days, he’d found a reason to stay.”  He paused again, and then said quietly, “Her name was Milina, and she captured his heart.  First with her high, sweet voice as she sang in the dwarven feast-hall, and then with the innate kindness of her soul, a perfect match for his own.  Within those few days, they knew that they were meant for one another.  So, when his siblings decided it was time to move on-“
“He stayed,” Allisande said softly, glancing down at the gently smiling figure in the casket next to her.
The stranger nodded, and said, “Yes, it was the Storyteller.  It hurt him to leave his brothers and sister, but it would’ve broken his heart to leave Milina.  And so he stayed.  For over twenty years he lived in our village, plying his trade much as he did here, bringing joy to a generation of children.  And raising two of his own.”
Allisande’s eyes flew open in shock, and she said, “What?!  But he never-!”
The stranger shook his head sadly, and said, “The story has a less than happy ending, I’m afraid.  When the Storyteller’s children, a son and a daughter, were just grown and had left his house to start their own, a terrible fever swept through our village.  The Storyteller and his children survived, but Milina did not.”  He paused, seeing the expression of sad comprehension on Allisande’s face, and then continued.  “The Storyteller’s heart was shattered, of course.  His children did their best to console him, but it was no use.  In the end, he left the village, intending to search out his siblings, he said.  No one from my village ever heard from him again.”
A strange light in her eye, Allisande said, “He found them, eventually.  And neither he, nor they, ever mentioned your village.  But I understand why.”
The stranger nodded, and said, “They understood his pain, I suppose.  And respected his privacy.”
Allisande nodded slowly, and, in an odd voice said, “The children.  What became of them?”
The stranger smiled again, broader this time, and said, “Oh, I’m certain milady can imagine.  In time, they married and had children of their own, and those children grew to have children of their own as well.  In fact, just this last year, the sixth generation of the Storyteller’s progeny was born.  A baby girl named Milina.  My daughter.”
Allisande’s eyes widened again, and, looking once more to her son, so peaceful in the wooden casket, she examined his features closely.  Looking back to the stranger, it struck her then that there was indeed a resemblance, something about the eyes and the smile.  Yes, the smile!  So like the ones she remembered gracing the countenance of a sweet little boy the years had carried away from her.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ancestress,” the stranger said solemnly.  “And though I wish I’d made it here in time to see the Storyteller before his passing, as was my intent, I’m glad that circumstances have allowed this.”  Smiling broadly once more, he added, “Though I suspect that everyone at home will simply ascribe this tale to my boundless creativity.”
Allisande just looked at him for a moment, her eyes slowly misting over again, though not in sadness this time.  Finally, she said, “I doubt you’ll need worry about that, grandson.  If, of course, an old elven granny would be welcome in your home.”
The stranger’s smile became tender, and he said, “Milady, I believe you have several dozens of descendants who would be honored.”
Tears flowing freely now, Allisande turned back to the casket, placing her young, smooth hand on the wrinkled, age-spotted hand of her son, and said softly, “And so it seems I’ve been left with something after all.  More than I could ever have hoped for, in fact.”
The stranger nodded, placing his hands tenderly on the perpetually youthful shoulders of his many-times-great grandmother and said, “Balance, milady.  In all things, balance.  Whether we live long or short lives, what matters in the end is what we leave behind.”
She sniffed delicately, and, placing a hand over one of the stranger’s said, “I understand that now.  My son is gone, but his legacy isn’t.”  Smiling happily, she continued.  “The legacy he’s left for me.”
“For all of us,” the stranger said, “for all of us.”
Bending to plant a final kiss upon the Storyteller’s cheek, Allisande stepped away from the casket toward the door, the stranger at her side.  
In the characteristic elven manner, her mood abruptly shifted as she left the inn behind, her grief lifting like a gray fog burned away by the morning sun.  Joy flowed back into her and she laughed like a little girl in happy anticipation of what lay ahead.

END
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