"Wind weathers ancient willow's bough, the sea its shoreline spent; fertile fields they fallow fall, yet still stands Roèn Sendt."
-from Wanderings by Tolimas Sendt.
Prologue
Little is known of the one named Roèn Sendt save for those tales and records kept by a diverse few scattered about the Western Heartlands and her neighboring lands. Below is a collection of such tales, some true, others not without exaggeration, that begins to paint the picture of a man.
Roèn Sendt
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Clockwerkd
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The Calishite's Tale
Ten days.
It had been ten uneventful days since our journey had begun from Almraiven en route to the mighty city of Waterdeep via Iriaebor and the heartlands. Across the "miles and miles of miles and miles" we rode, and this day of all days was unusually sweltering. Our hired mercenary sentries must have been particularly stricken by the oppressive heat having chosen to carry their steel helms on the sides of the saddles of their steeds rather than on their heads as they had been accustomed to doing. To think of riding in mailed suits on such a day is incomprehensible to this soul, but as they had been apportioned a generous amount of coin by my father for the protection of the caravan, the men seemed content with their plight joking and laughing in the crude sort of manner such men do. Their names I cannot recall save for that of the youngest of the three who was the constant focus of his compatriots' chiding.
Gazing from the window of the coach, I remember the dry sagebrush and tall prairie grasses that grew near the edge of the trail and fanned out in all directions as far as the eye could see. As the land had not had the fortune of rain for some days, the earth of the trail was parched and easily sent into the air by the hooves of the horses and the wheels of our carriages, spinning a veil of dust that trailed many lengths behind the last coach. The air that afternoon was ominously still and silent affording us neither cooling breeze nor the song of the meadowlarks which had accompanied us since our crossing from Amn.
As I have said before, it was the tenth day of our journey bound for the city of Waterdeep on the northern bounds of the Sword Coast. The reason of this journey, though not important for the purposes of this tale, was to transport wares from my uncle's shop which were much sought after by a specific guild in the ancient Tethyrian city. Three carriages strong were we, two filled to capacity with said wares, and the remaining carriage transporting me, my sister, and my cousin who was of questionable character. (I shall not delve into such reasons as to corroborate this reputation, but I assure you he was not the trust worthiest of souls given easily to the temptation of gold.) It had been decided after having left Almraiven to first divert our course to the city of Iriaebor by my cousin for unknown reasons and despite my protestation. (I have never been fond of the Western Heartlands, much preferring the more scenic route up the coast; but as my cousin was much older in years than my sister or I, we agreed to capitulate to his whim.)
It was on this day that the course of journey's events was to change. We were passing through the Greenfields and approaching the southern branch of the River Chianthar. Surrounded by the comfort of our carriage, my sister asleep and my cousin staring outward through the open coach window with his furrowed brow, I began to drift into a lazy sort of slumber lulled by the gentle rocking of the coach. I had just taken note of the sun's position high in the southwest as the flicker of consciousness began to escape me, when there was a cry from the forward sentry. Immediately, the other two mounted sentries bounded past the window to the head of the line as our coach driver signaled the horses to stop with a shout. I climbed across my sister now jarred from her sleep by the sudden commotion and thrust my head along side that of my cousin's to see what the matter was. Ahead, the three sentries conferred upon horseback, and I watched as one pointed to the north while another nervously glanced back to the coach. I turned to my cousin only to receive a dismissive shrug. I then surveyed the endless sea of grasses which lay still only to find nothing out of the ordinary. My curiosity getting the best of me, I opened the wooden door and stepped from the coach. It was as if in that moment, Toril fell silent.
No sooner had the toe of my silken boot touched the dusty trail, my ear felt a shock of wind followed by a sharp pain at the top of my ear. A bolt, now firmly embedded in the wooden coach wall had missed my head by the width of a thread, its feathered end having sliced a fresh wound. I felt the warm blood trickle through the folds of my ear, the dull ache increasing as I became oblivious to all around me.
Thwack, thunk.
Another two followed, from where I cannot say, one finding its mark in the head of my sister, her body falling from view of the window lifelessly upon the bench of the coach. As if charged back from my insular mind, I fell to the ground rolling under the coach and upon my belly. With arms tucked beneath my body, my eyes darted frantically to and fro in an attempt to assess the matter. To the front of the coach, I saw the booted feet of our driver land in a cloud of dust and scurry to the east, his body quickly disappearing into the tall grasses. Two of the three sentries now had turned their horses and were riding to the back of the caravan with swords held high. The sudden break of silence had startled the mules and one coach barreled off clumsily into the prairie. My vision suddenly became lost within a cloud of dust which filled my nostrils and eyes causing them to burn and water profusely, and I heard the hooves of the third sentry come galloping to my right. Just as it had passed, there was a great cry from the horse followed by the sound of flesh and metal slamming against the ground. The blow cleared a swath through the dust and I was able to see the youngest sentry, his hands clasped about his throat skewered by a bolt. In a mess of crimson and dust, I watched in horror as he rolled gargling, his own blood drowning his lungs, his eyes wide with terror. In only a short moment, the life departed him and he expired. The hooves of the other animals had begun to fall silent, and I tore my sights from the corpse frantically trying to see through the confusion. A few distant shouts, the cry of a mule, and then, the land fell silent again. My clear ear, the other having now filled with blood, became aware through the sound of my own rapid breathing of a whimpering emanating from the floor of the coach above me. I began to feel the beat of my heart pulsing through the wound on my ear and my body froze.
Silently I lay for a great while with only the whimpering above me and the sounds of the pack animals alerting me to a presence other than my own. Then without warning, I heard the padded footsteps of a single pair of boots slowly approaching from the rear of the caravan. The gait was wide and sounded as though it was heavily burdened. In my fright, I kept still staring forward between the legs of the horses still tethered to the coach as the steps grew closer. From the corner of my eye, I could perceive the boots appear alongside the coach to my left. They were fashioned of animal skins, perhaps deer, and showed a fair amount of wear. I could make out the bottom half of buckskin breeches about the legs of the boot wearer and knew they were of foreign make belonging to none of those in our party. They stopped just shy of the middle of the coach kicking up a small amount of dust into the air. The whimpering stopped; and without warning, I heard a slight, deep grunt and then the thud of a large bundle hitting the earth followed quickly by another. As the air cleared, the faint outlines of the bundles slowly came into focus revealing, to my horror, the twisted forms of two men dressed in loosely bound, darkened leathers now freshly spotted with blood. Both of their heads were shrouded in black cloth about the head and mouth as to expose only the eyes. The booted figure shuffled and moved to the south dropping a crossbow upon the corpse nearest me as he departed.
Following his steps as far as I could without turning my neck, I watched as he slipped from sight. Now as the dust began to settle, so too did the chaos in my mind and my thoughts began to drift to the events of several moments passed. Before me on my left lay the two shrouded men, on my right further out near the edge of the trail the young sentry, eyes still wide. My thoughts quickly turned to the fate of my sister, and I fought to suppress the pain and anger that rushed forth from my heart, marshaling it as a weapon to wield against any threat. Tearing my mind from the pain, I took stock of the members in the caravan. The young sentry and my sister both slain. The coach driver and other sentries missing, possibly dead. I was alone save for my cousin from which I deduced the whimpering must have come, yet this afforded me no comfort for judging by his state, he would be of no aid.
Panic. I fought against its grip. My thoughts turned to my survival as I scanned the horizon from underneath the coach. In every direction lay the tall grasses of the Greenfields, an impenetrable sea about the island ribbon of dusty earth upon which the coach sat. To run would be folly for I knew very little of this foreign and savage land. And what of the booted stranger whose intentions I could not know? The constant clang and clatter of metal wares from the coach behind served to alert me of his whereabouts.
I schemed frantically to devise a method of escape. As my eyes darted about, they fell again upon the corpse nearest me. His head was turned in such a fashion that his closed eyes lay directly in line with mine. For some reason for which I still to this day cannot explain, I became entranced with the dead man's visage, my eyes anchored to his. Again, I lost awareness to all about me save for this man and the throbbing of the blood pumping through my ears. I stared as if trying to penetrate the eyelids of a man who could not return the gaze, the drone of my heart carrying my thoughts.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
The eyes shot open; and in my surprise and terror I could not bring my hands quickly enough over my mouth to suppress the yelp which escaped it. My heart jumped and the bitter taste of bile filled my mouth. I shifted to the far side of the coach in frightened spasms and had nearly spilled out from the cover of its underside when I regained my composure.
"The booted man!" The thought rang audibly in my mind. I closed my eyes, inhaling and holding what I thought to be the last of my breaths. The muscles about my eyes strained to shut out all traces of the light in hopes that I would open them again and awaken from a nightmare safely in my home in far away Calimshan. My ears offered no hint of his whereabouts, too filled with the rush of blood pumping through them. When I could hold it no longer, I released my breath as quietly as I could; and after what seemed to be an eternity, allowed my eyes to open.
A searing white light gave way to the sun washed forms of the horses' hindquarters. Suddenly, I was aware of a presence beside me. In horror, I froze. With great force of will, I was able to shift my eyes to the side and there within the distance of a dagger's length perched the boots. I closed my eyes again, whispering in haste a prayer for deliverance. For an instant, I felt his hot breath on my neck and smelled the scent of ash and earth. Before I could react the front of my embroidered tunic tightened about my chest as a hand strong and sure grappled it from behind dragging my body out into the hot sun and to my feet in a single motion. There I stood hunched, frozen, my eyes still closed. As the hand released me, I could smell the sweat of the man and I turned to run instinctively.
"Do not fear," the voice tore into my heart, warm yet deep and distant. The words were in the common tongue and rolled easily from his throat.
"You are in danger no longer."
There was something trusting in his voice and I stopped with my back to him. With a deep breath, I submitted to his mercy and turned about to look upon the one who spoke. I shall describe to you as best I can what it was I saw.
It must first be said that it cannot be mistaken that he was a man given to a feral way of life, a savage like the nomads of the Lands of Lions. Yet as I stood gazing upon him, I sensed an inner strength, a nobility rarely seen even among the cultured merchants of my homeland, and this served to calm my fears. There was an almost simple honesty and truth about him, the kind present in a man not bound by the will of other men. To this day, it is this impression that haunts me whenever I tell the tale of this man, this barbarian of the Western Heartlands.
His race I could only guess but I would venture Chondathan or perhaps Tethyrian given his manner of speech. He was a fairly tall man, tall by my standards, ruggedly built yet lithe. Upon powerful legs he stood, solid, a pillar against the blue, and noonday sky with his hands loosely upon his hips. They were large hands, well weathered and callused from what I could tell; and his skin was deeply darkened by the sun and glistened like finely oiled leather. Upon his neck sat a roughly chiseled head, fully shaven were it not for his eyebrows and the short lock of deep brown hair which draped from the top of his head to the base of his skull. It was bound in two locations by humble chords of leather and glistened like his skin. I remember his face to be kindly and trusting, though weathered and worn. It is his eyes, however, that remained burned upon my memory for they were a hauntingly pale hazel color, pale like cloth that is bleached by the sun; and they looked upon me without malice. I saw in them great resolve; but beyond this resolve, there was a deep sadness, a longing which brought forth a sense of pity in my heart for this man I did not know.
His breeches and boots I have already described, and he wore a tunic hewn from the hide of some animal I could not determine which hung loosely about his neck exposing his chest. It showed great wear, being torn slightly in several places. The arms of the tunic had been removed exposing broad shoulders which gave way to arms richly decorated with primitive yet intricately inked lunar designs. (In my youth, my father had spun tales for my sister and me in the great shadows of our room of a people without land or home who worshiped the moon and were given freely to drink and food and dance. They would prey upon the countless caravans that crossed the prairies, stripping them of their wares and their lives. I recalled these stories at the sight of the tattoos and wondered if he could be such a one.) He bore no signs of wealth but carried a great pack upon his back, tattered, having been sewn crudely in several places to which a small, wooden shield and an old, metal axe were bound.
As I pondered the designs upon his arms, my eyes were jolted away suddenly by his voice.
"Can you ride?"
I clumsily tripped over my thoughts, stuttering an incoherent reply. Again he pressed the question. "Can you ride a horse?"
I stared blankly into his pale eyes for a moment, the question still sinking into my muddied mind. Coming to my senses, I managed to answer with a nod of my head. A myriad of questions were now compounding within my mind, slamming into each other and racing about.
"Good. Ride north. You are not far from Iriaebor. A patrol of men keeps watch of the southern pass south of the river. If you ride quickly, you should reach them and return by nightfall."
The faces of my sister and cousin became suddenly vivid to me, "But what of my..."
"You are the last," he interrupted softly.
I watched as he glanced downward at the young sentry's corpse and saw in his eyes an angry, sullen frown that was beginning to manifest itself upon his face. He then turned to gaze westward in the direction of the fleeing sentries and lamented with a voice embittered yet quiet, "Bad men, your friends. Quickly, ride. Your wares will be safe."
For an instant, he looked back to me; and I thought I perceived the frown give way to a warm smile. He bade me hurry, and I did not hesitate except to readjust my tunic to which he let escape a slight chuckle. I mounted the steed of the young sentry and brought it about to face the man. The horse was anxious to run.
I opened my mouth to speak but he silenced me with a shout, "Ride!" My eyes met his for a moment, and we exchanged a knowing glance. With that, he slapped the hind of the horse as I turned it north, sending me bouncing upon its back, barreling for the city of spires. Only once did I look behind me to see his figure, now small against the horizon, standing steadfast, watching me disappear in the trail of dust kicked up by the hooves of my steed.
It was not until the moon hung low in the western sky that I returned riding with seven men from the patrol the man had said would be south of the river. As we approached the wagons, torches held high, I noticed very little had changed since I had left half a day ago. An eerie calmness hung over the coaches lit now by the orange flames of our torches with only the sound of distant crickets disturbing the night air. Dismounting, I encircled the coach which had served as my sanctuary just a short time ago to find no trace of the masked men or the young sentry's body. Warily, I approached the coach window, frightened of what I would find. I brought the torch up over its edge casting its flickering light into the body of the coach. There, bound completely in woolen blankets, lay the bodies of my cousin and sister. Upon their chests were sprinkled the fragrant leaves of a foreign plant, the scent of which I had never known which served to hide the odor of decay. I wheeled about and scanned the area, searching in earnest for the tattooed man; but it was a search that would be fruitless: He too had vanished.
Since that time, I have made many more journeys through the heartlands along that very path. And each time, I have taken to riding with the coach driver in hopes of spying the booted man among the grasses at the edge of the trail; but it is only disappointment I find. Sometimes in the evening after having returned home from such a journey, as the sun sets in the west and paints the sky in hues of red and purple and the applewood embers grow faint in the braziers, I will lay, rocking gently in my hammock as I stare out across the olive fields, and recall the face of the man with pale eyes who delivered an unknown traveler from the bandits' sting that sweltering day along the road to Iriaebor.
This is my tale.
It had been ten uneventful days since our journey had begun from Almraiven en route to the mighty city of Waterdeep via Iriaebor and the heartlands. Across the "miles and miles of miles and miles" we rode, and this day of all days was unusually sweltering. Our hired mercenary sentries must have been particularly stricken by the oppressive heat having chosen to carry their steel helms on the sides of the saddles of their steeds rather than on their heads as they had been accustomed to doing. To think of riding in mailed suits on such a day is incomprehensible to this soul, but as they had been apportioned a generous amount of coin by my father for the protection of the caravan, the men seemed content with their plight joking and laughing in the crude sort of manner such men do. Their names I cannot recall save for that of the youngest of the three who was the constant focus of his compatriots' chiding.
Gazing from the window of the coach, I remember the dry sagebrush and tall prairie grasses that grew near the edge of the trail and fanned out in all directions as far as the eye could see. As the land had not had the fortune of rain for some days, the earth of the trail was parched and easily sent into the air by the hooves of the horses and the wheels of our carriages, spinning a veil of dust that trailed many lengths behind the last coach. The air that afternoon was ominously still and silent affording us neither cooling breeze nor the song of the meadowlarks which had accompanied us since our crossing from Amn.
As I have said before, it was the tenth day of our journey bound for the city of Waterdeep on the northern bounds of the Sword Coast. The reason of this journey, though not important for the purposes of this tale, was to transport wares from my uncle's shop which were much sought after by a specific guild in the ancient Tethyrian city. Three carriages strong were we, two filled to capacity with said wares, and the remaining carriage transporting me, my sister, and my cousin who was of questionable character. (I shall not delve into such reasons as to corroborate this reputation, but I assure you he was not the trust worthiest of souls given easily to the temptation of gold.) It had been decided after having left Almraiven to first divert our course to the city of Iriaebor by my cousin for unknown reasons and despite my protestation. (I have never been fond of the Western Heartlands, much preferring the more scenic route up the coast; but as my cousin was much older in years than my sister or I, we agreed to capitulate to his whim.)
It was on this day that the course of journey's events was to change. We were passing through the Greenfields and approaching the southern branch of the River Chianthar. Surrounded by the comfort of our carriage, my sister asleep and my cousin staring outward through the open coach window with his furrowed brow, I began to drift into a lazy sort of slumber lulled by the gentle rocking of the coach. I had just taken note of the sun's position high in the southwest as the flicker of consciousness began to escape me, when there was a cry from the forward sentry. Immediately, the other two mounted sentries bounded past the window to the head of the line as our coach driver signaled the horses to stop with a shout. I climbed across my sister now jarred from her sleep by the sudden commotion and thrust my head along side that of my cousin's to see what the matter was. Ahead, the three sentries conferred upon horseback, and I watched as one pointed to the north while another nervously glanced back to the coach. I turned to my cousin only to receive a dismissive shrug. I then surveyed the endless sea of grasses which lay still only to find nothing out of the ordinary. My curiosity getting the best of me, I opened the wooden door and stepped from the coach. It was as if in that moment, Toril fell silent.
No sooner had the toe of my silken boot touched the dusty trail, my ear felt a shock of wind followed by a sharp pain at the top of my ear. A bolt, now firmly embedded in the wooden coach wall had missed my head by the width of a thread, its feathered end having sliced a fresh wound. I felt the warm blood trickle through the folds of my ear, the dull ache increasing as I became oblivious to all around me.
Thwack, thunk.
Another two followed, from where I cannot say, one finding its mark in the head of my sister, her body falling from view of the window lifelessly upon the bench of the coach. As if charged back from my insular mind, I fell to the ground rolling under the coach and upon my belly. With arms tucked beneath my body, my eyes darted frantically to and fro in an attempt to assess the matter. To the front of the coach, I saw the booted feet of our driver land in a cloud of dust and scurry to the east, his body quickly disappearing into the tall grasses. Two of the three sentries now had turned their horses and were riding to the back of the caravan with swords held high. The sudden break of silence had startled the mules and one coach barreled off clumsily into the prairie. My vision suddenly became lost within a cloud of dust which filled my nostrils and eyes causing them to burn and water profusely, and I heard the hooves of the third sentry come galloping to my right. Just as it had passed, there was a great cry from the horse followed by the sound of flesh and metal slamming against the ground. The blow cleared a swath through the dust and I was able to see the youngest sentry, his hands clasped about his throat skewered by a bolt. In a mess of crimson and dust, I watched in horror as he rolled gargling, his own blood drowning his lungs, his eyes wide with terror. In only a short moment, the life departed him and he expired. The hooves of the other animals had begun to fall silent, and I tore my sights from the corpse frantically trying to see through the confusion. A few distant shouts, the cry of a mule, and then, the land fell silent again. My clear ear, the other having now filled with blood, became aware through the sound of my own rapid breathing of a whimpering emanating from the floor of the coach above me. I began to feel the beat of my heart pulsing through the wound on my ear and my body froze.
Silently I lay for a great while with only the whimpering above me and the sounds of the pack animals alerting me to a presence other than my own. Then without warning, I heard the padded footsteps of a single pair of boots slowly approaching from the rear of the caravan. The gait was wide and sounded as though it was heavily burdened. In my fright, I kept still staring forward between the legs of the horses still tethered to the coach as the steps grew closer. From the corner of my eye, I could perceive the boots appear alongside the coach to my left. They were fashioned of animal skins, perhaps deer, and showed a fair amount of wear. I could make out the bottom half of buckskin breeches about the legs of the boot wearer and knew they were of foreign make belonging to none of those in our party. They stopped just shy of the middle of the coach kicking up a small amount of dust into the air. The whimpering stopped; and without warning, I heard a slight, deep grunt and then the thud of a large bundle hitting the earth followed quickly by another. As the air cleared, the faint outlines of the bundles slowly came into focus revealing, to my horror, the twisted forms of two men dressed in loosely bound, darkened leathers now freshly spotted with blood. Both of their heads were shrouded in black cloth about the head and mouth as to expose only the eyes. The booted figure shuffled and moved to the south dropping a crossbow upon the corpse nearest me as he departed.
Following his steps as far as I could without turning my neck, I watched as he slipped from sight. Now as the dust began to settle, so too did the chaos in my mind and my thoughts began to drift to the events of several moments passed. Before me on my left lay the two shrouded men, on my right further out near the edge of the trail the young sentry, eyes still wide. My thoughts quickly turned to the fate of my sister, and I fought to suppress the pain and anger that rushed forth from my heart, marshaling it as a weapon to wield against any threat. Tearing my mind from the pain, I took stock of the members in the caravan. The young sentry and my sister both slain. The coach driver and other sentries missing, possibly dead. I was alone save for my cousin from which I deduced the whimpering must have come, yet this afforded me no comfort for judging by his state, he would be of no aid.
Panic. I fought against its grip. My thoughts turned to my survival as I scanned the horizon from underneath the coach. In every direction lay the tall grasses of the Greenfields, an impenetrable sea about the island ribbon of dusty earth upon which the coach sat. To run would be folly for I knew very little of this foreign and savage land. And what of the booted stranger whose intentions I could not know? The constant clang and clatter of metal wares from the coach behind served to alert me of his whereabouts.
I schemed frantically to devise a method of escape. As my eyes darted about, they fell again upon the corpse nearest me. His head was turned in such a fashion that his closed eyes lay directly in line with mine. For some reason for which I still to this day cannot explain, I became entranced with the dead man's visage, my eyes anchored to his. Again, I lost awareness to all about me save for this man and the throbbing of the blood pumping through my ears. I stared as if trying to penetrate the eyelids of a man who could not return the gaze, the drone of my heart carrying my thoughts.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
The eyes shot open; and in my surprise and terror I could not bring my hands quickly enough over my mouth to suppress the yelp which escaped it. My heart jumped and the bitter taste of bile filled my mouth. I shifted to the far side of the coach in frightened spasms and had nearly spilled out from the cover of its underside when I regained my composure.
"The booted man!" The thought rang audibly in my mind. I closed my eyes, inhaling and holding what I thought to be the last of my breaths. The muscles about my eyes strained to shut out all traces of the light in hopes that I would open them again and awaken from a nightmare safely in my home in far away Calimshan. My ears offered no hint of his whereabouts, too filled with the rush of blood pumping through them. When I could hold it no longer, I released my breath as quietly as I could; and after what seemed to be an eternity, allowed my eyes to open.
A searing white light gave way to the sun washed forms of the horses' hindquarters. Suddenly, I was aware of a presence beside me. In horror, I froze. With great force of will, I was able to shift my eyes to the side and there within the distance of a dagger's length perched the boots. I closed my eyes again, whispering in haste a prayer for deliverance. For an instant, I felt his hot breath on my neck and smelled the scent of ash and earth. Before I could react the front of my embroidered tunic tightened about my chest as a hand strong and sure grappled it from behind dragging my body out into the hot sun and to my feet in a single motion. There I stood hunched, frozen, my eyes still closed. As the hand released me, I could smell the sweat of the man and I turned to run instinctively.
"Do not fear," the voice tore into my heart, warm yet deep and distant. The words were in the common tongue and rolled easily from his throat.
"You are in danger no longer."
There was something trusting in his voice and I stopped with my back to him. With a deep breath, I submitted to his mercy and turned about to look upon the one who spoke. I shall describe to you as best I can what it was I saw.
It must first be said that it cannot be mistaken that he was a man given to a feral way of life, a savage like the nomads of the Lands of Lions. Yet as I stood gazing upon him, I sensed an inner strength, a nobility rarely seen even among the cultured merchants of my homeland, and this served to calm my fears. There was an almost simple honesty and truth about him, the kind present in a man not bound by the will of other men. To this day, it is this impression that haunts me whenever I tell the tale of this man, this barbarian of the Western Heartlands.
His race I could only guess but I would venture Chondathan or perhaps Tethyrian given his manner of speech. He was a fairly tall man, tall by my standards, ruggedly built yet lithe. Upon powerful legs he stood, solid, a pillar against the blue, and noonday sky with his hands loosely upon his hips. They were large hands, well weathered and callused from what I could tell; and his skin was deeply darkened by the sun and glistened like finely oiled leather. Upon his neck sat a roughly chiseled head, fully shaven were it not for his eyebrows and the short lock of deep brown hair which draped from the top of his head to the base of his skull. It was bound in two locations by humble chords of leather and glistened like his skin. I remember his face to be kindly and trusting, though weathered and worn. It is his eyes, however, that remained burned upon my memory for they were a hauntingly pale hazel color, pale like cloth that is bleached by the sun; and they looked upon me without malice. I saw in them great resolve; but beyond this resolve, there was a deep sadness, a longing which brought forth a sense of pity in my heart for this man I did not know.
His breeches and boots I have already described, and he wore a tunic hewn from the hide of some animal I could not determine which hung loosely about his neck exposing his chest. It showed great wear, being torn slightly in several places. The arms of the tunic had been removed exposing broad shoulders which gave way to arms richly decorated with primitive yet intricately inked lunar designs. (In my youth, my father had spun tales for my sister and me in the great shadows of our room of a people without land or home who worshiped the moon and were given freely to drink and food and dance. They would prey upon the countless caravans that crossed the prairies, stripping them of their wares and their lives. I recalled these stories at the sight of the tattoos and wondered if he could be such a one.) He bore no signs of wealth but carried a great pack upon his back, tattered, having been sewn crudely in several places to which a small, wooden shield and an old, metal axe were bound.
As I pondered the designs upon his arms, my eyes were jolted away suddenly by his voice.
"Can you ride?"
I clumsily tripped over my thoughts, stuttering an incoherent reply. Again he pressed the question. "Can you ride a horse?"
I stared blankly into his pale eyes for a moment, the question still sinking into my muddied mind. Coming to my senses, I managed to answer with a nod of my head. A myriad of questions were now compounding within my mind, slamming into each other and racing about.
"Good. Ride north. You are not far from Iriaebor. A patrol of men keeps watch of the southern pass south of the river. If you ride quickly, you should reach them and return by nightfall."
The faces of my sister and cousin became suddenly vivid to me, "But what of my..."
"You are the last," he interrupted softly.
I watched as he glanced downward at the young sentry's corpse and saw in his eyes an angry, sullen frown that was beginning to manifest itself upon his face. He then turned to gaze westward in the direction of the fleeing sentries and lamented with a voice embittered yet quiet, "Bad men, your friends. Quickly, ride. Your wares will be safe."
For an instant, he looked back to me; and I thought I perceived the frown give way to a warm smile. He bade me hurry, and I did not hesitate except to readjust my tunic to which he let escape a slight chuckle. I mounted the steed of the young sentry and brought it about to face the man. The horse was anxious to run.
I opened my mouth to speak but he silenced me with a shout, "Ride!" My eyes met his for a moment, and we exchanged a knowing glance. With that, he slapped the hind of the horse as I turned it north, sending me bouncing upon its back, barreling for the city of spires. Only once did I look behind me to see his figure, now small against the horizon, standing steadfast, watching me disappear in the trail of dust kicked up by the hooves of my steed.
It was not until the moon hung low in the western sky that I returned riding with seven men from the patrol the man had said would be south of the river. As we approached the wagons, torches held high, I noticed very little had changed since I had left half a day ago. An eerie calmness hung over the coaches lit now by the orange flames of our torches with only the sound of distant crickets disturbing the night air. Dismounting, I encircled the coach which had served as my sanctuary just a short time ago to find no trace of the masked men or the young sentry's body. Warily, I approached the coach window, frightened of what I would find. I brought the torch up over its edge casting its flickering light into the body of the coach. There, bound completely in woolen blankets, lay the bodies of my cousin and sister. Upon their chests were sprinkled the fragrant leaves of a foreign plant, the scent of which I had never known which served to hide the odor of decay. I wheeled about and scanned the area, searching in earnest for the tattooed man; but it was a search that would be fruitless: He too had vanished.
Since that time, I have made many more journeys through the heartlands along that very path. And each time, I have taken to riding with the coach driver in hopes of spying the booted man among the grasses at the edge of the trail; but it is only disappointment I find. Sometimes in the evening after having returned home from such a journey, as the sun sets in the west and paints the sky in hues of red and purple and the applewood embers grow faint in the braziers, I will lay, rocking gently in my hammock as I stare out across the olive fields, and recall the face of the man with pale eyes who delivered an unknown traveler from the bandits' sting that sweltering day along the road to Iriaebor.
This is my tale.
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Clockwerkd
- Posts: 11
- Joined: Sat Feb 21, 2004 6:12 pm
Voices of the Past
"Woe to him with eyes seduced by ship's wealthy hold below!
Keep your watch instead to starry sky above.
For it is silver, not gold, that holds the water's gaze;
And each man's soul, in turn's, a sea."
-old Tethyrian sailors' proverb
Keep your watch instead to starry sky above.
For it is silver, not gold, that holds the water's gaze;
And each man's soul, in turn's, a sea."
-old Tethyrian sailors' proverb
-
Clockwerkd
- Posts: 11
- Joined: Sat Feb 21, 2004 6:12 pm
Tale at the Twisted Oar
Nestled at the edge of a wood atop a rocky bluff, where the angry sea meets the jagged coast of the Western Heartlands, sits a lonely, wind-battered tavern with a mossy green roof, whose leeward slope provides a sheltering roost for the circling gulls that gather to pluck fish from the waters each day at dawn. Neither sign nor road directs the traveler to its location save for a thin rocky footpath overgrown with thistle and crabgrasses which winds casually along the forest's edge to the humble wooden door centered upon the western facade. Upon this portal, secured by no less than nine rusty, square-headed nails, is a small and simple oar of wood, twisted and sunbleached, which serves as both handle and sign. And it is upon this length of wood that the more perceptive wayfarer will find carved by a rough and primitive hand the simple shape of a crescent moon.
The rain had just begun to fall outside the humble tavern when the woodsman Béodan reached its rotted threshold. It was a cold rain borne across the sea by the western wind, the sort of rain which soaks the skin through instantly and touches one’s bones with its icy fingers. He had never been to the place, nor recognized the path which wound to its door; but it beckoned to him, luring him onward with the hope of shelter and warmth from the cold.
He paused before the entry and stared at the wooden oar nailed to the wind-washed boards of the door. Its bleached surface was now beginning to glisten in the pale light of the diffused sun making it appear to twist and pull from the door as though held captive against its will; and if not for the sense of something foreboding embodied within this twisted shank of wood, the weary traveler would have felt pity for the oar. He shook the notion from his head attributing the thought to the weariness of his feet. With a final glance to the darkening waters below, he pressed in through the entry and pulled the wooden door firmly shut behind him.
The interior was both warm and dry and dimly lit by a stone hearth on the southern wall. Shaking the rain from his cloak, the man’s eyes wandered about the room. It was claustrophobic though it brought comfort to a man who had come from the open road. The knotted rafters above were exposed and aligned in such a way as to remind him of the ribs of an overturned ship. From these rafters hung the remnants of both sea and land whose shadows, charged to life by the fire, engaged in an infernal dance upon the underside of the roof: fragments of ships, tackle and block, tattered nets, furs, hides, skulls and jaws of creature’s both familiar and unknown. At the eastern end opposite the door was a small bar hewn from pine in front of which were gathered four short stools, empty save one. Upon this stool was a monkey that stood poised, staring with great anticipation at a burly man who sat behind the bar with an elbow rested upon it. With a flick of his finger, he sent morsels of walnut from a pile toward the animal which would then pounce upon each much to the man’s amusement. He continued this game seemingly unaware of the presence of the traveler still standing at the door.
Now Béodan was not a timid man or one given easily to superstition and fanciful thought, but the scene made him uneasy, and his thoughts turned again to the open road, doubt poking its crooked fingers into his mind. At that moment, the wind bellowed with such force that the shutters were rattled and the flames of the fire faltered. The burly man behind the bar looked up for the first time to meet the woodsman, a wide, cheery grin spreading across his lips. The proprietor’s eyes were lonely eyes, kind and warm, and they bade Béodan to stay.
“It’s lookin’ to be an angry one out there,” The proprietor said straightening himself to face the traveler. “You might as well weather the storm ‘ere, my good man. Not another tavern for many leagues. You wouldn’t be the first to be taken by the winds on a night like this one.”
The monkey now seized its opportunity and leaped to the bar top and the unwatched pile of walnuts. “Come, stay at least a while,” the man pleaded. “No sense traveling while Umberlee is about.” The proprietor’s smile was inviting and honest. It had been a long journey thus far and the fire was warm and satisfying. Seeing the sense in the man’s words, Béodan capitulated and removed his cloak as he took up a stool before the bar. The wind had grown in strength and began driving heavy waves of rain against the old, wooden clapboards of the tavern.<br>
“Strange fellow you have there,” Béodan remarked with a nod to the gorging monkey who attacked the nutty fruit as though he had not eaten in days.
“Aw…Persus? Got ‘im up in Baldur’s Gate ‘bout a year or so ago. Keeps me company.” To this the monkey let out a loud shriek. “He’s not one for being talked about,” the proprietor chuckled.
The traveler forced a half-hearted grin and motioned for an ale which the bartender promptly served in an old, dented tin flagon. “There you ‘ave it,” the bartender said proudly setting it down before the man. Clasping it in both hands, Béodan swirled it about and took his first draft of which there would be many. The ale was bold and hoppy and coursed through his veins with a much welcomed warmth. “Seems a strange place for a tavern,” he suddenly belched.
“Aye, it does at that,” the bartender responded as his big bulbous eyes rolled about the room beneath his bushy eyebrows. “But you’d be surprised. I get a decent lot through ‘ere time to time and I don’t mind the solitude. Never had any trouble.” At these words the monkey let out another screech toward the traveler as if to warn him against any attempt at foul play.
“Every tavern needs its bouncer, eh?” Béodan raised his glass to the creature with a smirk before emptying the vessel.<br>
“Aye,” the bartender chuckled with a wink shielded by a hand from the monkey’s view, “and he works for cheap.” A sudden vein of lightning tore through the sky illuminating the interior of the tavern in a flash of cold light. “We all ‘ave to earn our keep one way or another in these parts.”
The wind continued its assault on the western façade as the men spoke into the night sharing tales of their journeys and villages they both had visited. The ale flowed freely, and the storm faded from their thoughts. Soon, the conversation turned back to the tavern. “I still don’t understand why you would take up such a forsaken piece of land. If I were you, I’d sell the place and head up to Daggerford,” Béodan slurred before slamming his ninth empty flagon to the bar top. “Good coin to be earned up there.” As though in response, a loud clap of thunder exploded with a crash that shook the room.
“Can’t seem to leave the place,” the bartender sighed looking about as he placed another mug before the woodsman. “There’s something about it that holds me to the spot. Can’t right explain it, you know; but then again, don’t really much care. It’s home.” The bartender suddenly became reflective and stared off into the crackling flames of the fire.
Béodan smirked and shrugged, “Most of these things yours then?” He inquired twirling a finger in the air at the hanging objects as he took another drink.
The proprietor nodded softly, “Aye, most of ‘em.”
“And what about that oar outside?” the traveler hiccupped. “Surely it has a tale to tell.”
The bartender drew his gaze away from the fire and shrugged. “Don’t know. Never quite found an answer to that one. Was nailed there sure as rain when I came upon the place. Could be a relic left by fishermen years ago. It’s not uncommon to find old fishing shacks up and down the coast.”
“I know the tale,” a cracked and harsh voice interrupted from the corner of the room near the fireplace. “I was of the crew, you see, who nailed it to the door.”
The voice startled the conversing men who had been oblivious to the old man’ presence, and the monkey let out a frightful cry and dashed beneath the bar seeking refuge between the proprietor’s legs. Béodan rubbed his groggy eyes with reddened fists. “Who is he?” he whispered through the corner of his slightly pursed lips, his gaze still fixed upon the withered heap of the man.
“Forgotten you were there, so quiet and all,” the bartender’s expression eased as he said with a chuckle. “Never asked his name. Wanders about the woods from time to time stopping 'ere for somethin’ to eat and shelter from the weather.” He leaned across the bar and playfully chastised the man, “You nearly scared us 'af-to-death! Bah.” The proprietor flicked a hand dismissively in his direction and turned about to wipe clean a frothy mug. The monkey cowered away, slipping beneath the creaking floor boards behind the bar.
Béodan was less forgiving of the old man’s interruption still having been astonished at his failure to notice this visitor who many hours ago had evaded his perception. The woodsman’s eyes narrowed, focusing upon the man with an appraising stare. He was a boney man who appeared to not have had the fortune of a good meal for some time and whose hunched form seemed to echo a deep sadness that surrounded this forlorn creature. Thin, wispy locks of tangled, graying hair dangled over his eyes and face obscuring it from view. His skin, like his hair, was also grey, drawn, and wrinkled like weathered driftwood. Bare knees, just as knurled, peeked out from beneath a tattered smock.
“Well, out with it, old man, for the storm abates and the morning draws near!”
The Old Sailor’s Tale
He began with a voice that squeaked like an old pulley.
“You ask me how it is the oar came to be nailed to that very door and to that I answer through greed of the most vile kind! Many years ago, I came to find myself among ranks of the merchant ship Talisman whose crew was an unsavory lot though true in their dealings. The captain was not a kind man but treated his men well enough to escape the poisoned tongue of mutiny, and it was very near here that the captain and his men came ashore one day in search of provisions and wood for the carpenter’s stock. How I rue that day!”
“Now upon coming ashore, it was the captain’s custom, obsession I recount, to take with him a plank of wood from the finest tree to be carved into an oar by his carpenter’s hand. His cabin was filled with such carvings each bringing less pleasure than the next. Darkwood and cherry, willow and oak. The carpenter would finish an oar of pine to find the captain’s appetite now favored beech. And as such, the captain was never satisfied.”
“While his men were busy about their duties, the captain wandered about the wood and entered a small clearing.” The old man signaled with a withered hand that the wood behind the tavern was indeed the same wood through which he walked “On the far side of this clearing growing from a bed of clover was the most beautiful tree he had ever seen. O, how straight and true it grew! Instantly, the captain’s eyes coveted the tree, and he called to his men to hurry with their axes, giving the order to cut it down. ‘Cut me a length as tall as a man from the heartwood of this tree and burn what is left,’ I believe were his words. For the captain was a greedy man, you see, and wanted to possess the wood only for himself. Nothing was to remain. Some of the men who had knowledge of the coast refused to obey and warned of the fey which protect the woods and trees such as this. So beautiful was this tree, they thought, it must surely be one. This enraged the captain, and he seized an axe from the man nearest him and began hacking into the trunk spouting angered threats of punishment to those who would not help.” As he spoke, the old man took up an invisible axe and swung several times in the air with a soured scowl. “Reluctantly, they joined fearing the captain’s whip, and it was not long before a shank of wood was carved from the trunk and loaded upon the boat.
“Night fell quickly, and it was decided that they would stay until the morning so as to not risk the journey back in darkness for it was a cloudy eve. Not even the moon shed her light upon the water. A scout soon discovered an old shack long since abandoned at the edge of the wood; and they retired to their newfound shelter, fueled a fire with a few scraps from the tree, and drifted into uneasy sleep.”
“When they awoke the next morning, the men were restless and troubled for each had dreamed of an infinite darkness from which a woman’s voice wept. ‘The woods are haunted,’ they whispered and quickly gathered their things. Following the captain’s orders, they collected the remaining branches and splinters of the tree and built a great pyre upon the rocky shore. Setting it ablaze, they loaded the boat and pushed off from shore.”
“Back at the Talisman, the men worked quickly hoisting the wood to the deck. Hand over hand, they drew it up and lowered it upon the two blocks prepared for it.” The old man pantomimed the action with such great realism that the woodsman thought surely he was the one who manned the hoisting rope. “At once, the master carpenter began his work with axe and plane. By nightfall, the oar had been carved.”
“Not much of a carpenter,” Béodan quipped taking another draft of his ale.
“You see the oar only as it is now and not as it was. For it was a magnificent piece, strong and straight as the tree from which it was carved,” the old man retorted. “But it would not remain so for long. Once in the captain’s hand, you see, it began to shrivel and twist. Not at once, mind you, but slowly, steadily. Each day it withered a little more; and each night, the captain was plagued with the nightmare from that night ashore, waking in a sweat to discover his body, like the oar, had begun to wither. And like the center of the wood which hardened and cracked so too was the captain’s heart hardened. He grew more cruel and withdrawn, his punishments harsher and more unjustified. Rations of rum were quartered, then abolished. Men were flogged for the most trivial of offenses. The crew began to whisper among themselves that the oar was cursed and plots against the captain circulated in secret through the dark recesses of the ship.”
“But the captain too knew what had transpired since that day the oar was fashioned, and his darkened heart was turned against the oar. One evening, the captain, fearing for his life and the fate of his gold, called for the bo’sun who was above all others still loyal. From his bedside where he lay shriveled and twisted, he pulled the bo'sun close and whispered with a weak and bitter voice, “When the night watch changes, take the cursed oar ashore and nail it to the western face of that loathsome shack so that it will never look upon it’s beloved wood again but instead be made to stare out toward the sea in punishment for what it has brought upon me.”
“So the bo'sun found the twisted oar beneath the captain’s bed and collected the carpenter’s hammer and satchel. Enlisting the service of the night watchman, a young savage whose heart was more content with the glittering of stars than the glittering of gold, the two lowered the rowboat quietly into the dark waters; and under the cover of darkness, made their way toward the distant shore.”
“It was several hours before they ran aground near the place they had found the tree. Climbing to the top of the cliffs, they came upon the shack, and the bo'sun took up the oar. Pressing it against the portal, he called to the young savage, ‘Roèn, come hold the oar for me.’”
“The young savage approached the oar but hesitated. ‘Wait,’ he whispered as he took hold of it and laid it upon the mossy ground. Drawing forth his knife from its sheath, he carved into the paddle a crescent moon and whispered a few silent, apologetic words. Nodding to the bo’sun, he held it to the door while the other drove nine nails of iron through the twisted wood.”
“That same night, after the two had disembarked, the captain slipped into slumber and dreamt again of the infinite darkness and the woman’s cry just as he had done many nights before. But it was not the same dream, you see; for this time, a searing white moon appeared through the darkness scorching his flesh and pressing back the lids of his eyes. He looked upon the hole torn into the earth where the tree once stood and saw the woman whose cry had haunted him kneeling beside it, sobbing, her limbs severed, her body and face twisted like the oar. The bond between the two became clear, the bond that he himself had broken for his own gluttonous gain, and he began to weep. For the bond he had severed had become his own and his fate tied to that of the oar. Such was the curse of the dryad whose tree had been taken. He cowered and shielded his eyes from the burning orb terrified by the truth it had revealed to him. Twisting away, he found himself once again upon his bed. At the foot now stood the woman with a face as terrible as the night, and she raised a bloody axe up high shrieking with a piercing cry. How horrible the sound! In that moment, the captain sat up in his bed crying out in fear and regret, but his voice was not heard. For as the cry left his lungs, two of the ship's crew kicked wide the door and pierced him through with their mutinous swords no less than nine times. The body was then tossed into the sea.”
“It was not until several days later that the captain's body washed ashore at the base of this jagged cliff. And since that day, this shore that was once so calm and at ease is now assailed by an angry, desperate sea. For it is said that even in death, his tortured soul remains bound to the oar and commands the waves against the rock, seeking to reclaim the oar so that his wrong may be made right and his soul may find its peace.”
With these last words, the old man fell silent, and for the first time Béodan realized the storm had passed.<br>
“A fine tale, old man! My thanks for such a gifted telling.”
The old man did not stir but remained silent as though fast asleep. Both the bartender and the woodsman exchanged puzzled looks, ultimately dismissing the man’s sudden muteness with a shrug.
“It is late at that, goodman. I best take some rest too before sun’s light.” Settling the bill, Béodan unrolled his bedroll upon the floor and drifted into sleep.
The next morning, he awoke to the dull crackling of a smoldering fire. Gathering his things in the pale light of dawn, he stepped quietly to the bar where he found the proprietor fast asleep upon a stool, head thrown back, mouth agape, and snoring as loud as thunder. Dropping a few extra coins upon the bar he glanced to the corner where the old man had been. Only a pile of driftwood remained.
With a melancholy smile, Béodan stepped through the portal and pulled the wooden door firmly shut behind him. It was cool and damp outside, and his breath steamed from his nostrils like the fog now rising from the crashing sea. Pulling his cloak tightly about himself, he set forth with a pensive stride, the old man’s tale still fresh upon his mind. He had not walked far when he turned about and glanced back over his shoulder toward the lonely tavern. For a moment he thought he saw the old man standing beside the oar staring back at him with a wicked little grin. But his eyes were deceived it seemed, for a short breath of wind lifted the figure's hair to reveal the twisted face of an old crone, a face as twisted as the oar itself. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Béodan strained to focus, but the fog had consumed the tavern, and he now stood alone in a cloud of misty white.
The rain had just begun to fall outside the humble tavern when the woodsman Béodan reached its rotted threshold. It was a cold rain borne across the sea by the western wind, the sort of rain which soaks the skin through instantly and touches one’s bones with its icy fingers. He had never been to the place, nor recognized the path which wound to its door; but it beckoned to him, luring him onward with the hope of shelter and warmth from the cold.
He paused before the entry and stared at the wooden oar nailed to the wind-washed boards of the door. Its bleached surface was now beginning to glisten in the pale light of the diffused sun making it appear to twist and pull from the door as though held captive against its will; and if not for the sense of something foreboding embodied within this twisted shank of wood, the weary traveler would have felt pity for the oar. He shook the notion from his head attributing the thought to the weariness of his feet. With a final glance to the darkening waters below, he pressed in through the entry and pulled the wooden door firmly shut behind him.
The interior was both warm and dry and dimly lit by a stone hearth on the southern wall. Shaking the rain from his cloak, the man’s eyes wandered about the room. It was claustrophobic though it brought comfort to a man who had come from the open road. The knotted rafters above were exposed and aligned in such a way as to remind him of the ribs of an overturned ship. From these rafters hung the remnants of both sea and land whose shadows, charged to life by the fire, engaged in an infernal dance upon the underside of the roof: fragments of ships, tackle and block, tattered nets, furs, hides, skulls and jaws of creature’s both familiar and unknown. At the eastern end opposite the door was a small bar hewn from pine in front of which were gathered four short stools, empty save one. Upon this stool was a monkey that stood poised, staring with great anticipation at a burly man who sat behind the bar with an elbow rested upon it. With a flick of his finger, he sent morsels of walnut from a pile toward the animal which would then pounce upon each much to the man’s amusement. He continued this game seemingly unaware of the presence of the traveler still standing at the door.
Now Béodan was not a timid man or one given easily to superstition and fanciful thought, but the scene made him uneasy, and his thoughts turned again to the open road, doubt poking its crooked fingers into his mind. At that moment, the wind bellowed with such force that the shutters were rattled and the flames of the fire faltered. The burly man behind the bar looked up for the first time to meet the woodsman, a wide, cheery grin spreading across his lips. The proprietor’s eyes were lonely eyes, kind and warm, and they bade Béodan to stay.
“It’s lookin’ to be an angry one out there,” The proprietor said straightening himself to face the traveler. “You might as well weather the storm ‘ere, my good man. Not another tavern for many leagues. You wouldn’t be the first to be taken by the winds on a night like this one.”
The monkey now seized its opportunity and leaped to the bar top and the unwatched pile of walnuts. “Come, stay at least a while,” the man pleaded. “No sense traveling while Umberlee is about.” The proprietor’s smile was inviting and honest. It had been a long journey thus far and the fire was warm and satisfying. Seeing the sense in the man’s words, Béodan capitulated and removed his cloak as he took up a stool before the bar. The wind had grown in strength and began driving heavy waves of rain against the old, wooden clapboards of the tavern.<br>
“Strange fellow you have there,” Béodan remarked with a nod to the gorging monkey who attacked the nutty fruit as though he had not eaten in days.
“Aw…Persus? Got ‘im up in Baldur’s Gate ‘bout a year or so ago. Keeps me company.” To this the monkey let out a loud shriek. “He’s not one for being talked about,” the proprietor chuckled.
The traveler forced a half-hearted grin and motioned for an ale which the bartender promptly served in an old, dented tin flagon. “There you ‘ave it,” the bartender said proudly setting it down before the man. Clasping it in both hands, Béodan swirled it about and took his first draft of which there would be many. The ale was bold and hoppy and coursed through his veins with a much welcomed warmth. “Seems a strange place for a tavern,” he suddenly belched.
“Aye, it does at that,” the bartender responded as his big bulbous eyes rolled about the room beneath his bushy eyebrows. “But you’d be surprised. I get a decent lot through ‘ere time to time and I don’t mind the solitude. Never had any trouble.” At these words the monkey let out another screech toward the traveler as if to warn him against any attempt at foul play.
“Every tavern needs its bouncer, eh?” Béodan raised his glass to the creature with a smirk before emptying the vessel.<br>
“Aye,” the bartender chuckled with a wink shielded by a hand from the monkey’s view, “and he works for cheap.” A sudden vein of lightning tore through the sky illuminating the interior of the tavern in a flash of cold light. “We all ‘ave to earn our keep one way or another in these parts.”
The wind continued its assault on the western façade as the men spoke into the night sharing tales of their journeys and villages they both had visited. The ale flowed freely, and the storm faded from their thoughts. Soon, the conversation turned back to the tavern. “I still don’t understand why you would take up such a forsaken piece of land. If I were you, I’d sell the place and head up to Daggerford,” Béodan slurred before slamming his ninth empty flagon to the bar top. “Good coin to be earned up there.” As though in response, a loud clap of thunder exploded with a crash that shook the room.
“Can’t seem to leave the place,” the bartender sighed looking about as he placed another mug before the woodsman. “There’s something about it that holds me to the spot. Can’t right explain it, you know; but then again, don’t really much care. It’s home.” The bartender suddenly became reflective and stared off into the crackling flames of the fire.
Béodan smirked and shrugged, “Most of these things yours then?” He inquired twirling a finger in the air at the hanging objects as he took another drink.
The proprietor nodded softly, “Aye, most of ‘em.”
“And what about that oar outside?” the traveler hiccupped. “Surely it has a tale to tell.”
The bartender drew his gaze away from the fire and shrugged. “Don’t know. Never quite found an answer to that one. Was nailed there sure as rain when I came upon the place. Could be a relic left by fishermen years ago. It’s not uncommon to find old fishing shacks up and down the coast.”
“I know the tale,” a cracked and harsh voice interrupted from the corner of the room near the fireplace. “I was of the crew, you see, who nailed it to the door.”
The voice startled the conversing men who had been oblivious to the old man’ presence, and the monkey let out a frightful cry and dashed beneath the bar seeking refuge between the proprietor’s legs. Béodan rubbed his groggy eyes with reddened fists. “Who is he?” he whispered through the corner of his slightly pursed lips, his gaze still fixed upon the withered heap of the man.
“Forgotten you were there, so quiet and all,” the bartender’s expression eased as he said with a chuckle. “Never asked his name. Wanders about the woods from time to time stopping 'ere for somethin’ to eat and shelter from the weather.” He leaned across the bar and playfully chastised the man, “You nearly scared us 'af-to-death! Bah.” The proprietor flicked a hand dismissively in his direction and turned about to wipe clean a frothy mug. The monkey cowered away, slipping beneath the creaking floor boards behind the bar.
Béodan was less forgiving of the old man’s interruption still having been astonished at his failure to notice this visitor who many hours ago had evaded his perception. The woodsman’s eyes narrowed, focusing upon the man with an appraising stare. He was a boney man who appeared to not have had the fortune of a good meal for some time and whose hunched form seemed to echo a deep sadness that surrounded this forlorn creature. Thin, wispy locks of tangled, graying hair dangled over his eyes and face obscuring it from view. His skin, like his hair, was also grey, drawn, and wrinkled like weathered driftwood. Bare knees, just as knurled, peeked out from beneath a tattered smock.
“Well, out with it, old man, for the storm abates and the morning draws near!”
The Old Sailor’s Tale
He began with a voice that squeaked like an old pulley.
“You ask me how it is the oar came to be nailed to that very door and to that I answer through greed of the most vile kind! Many years ago, I came to find myself among ranks of the merchant ship Talisman whose crew was an unsavory lot though true in their dealings. The captain was not a kind man but treated his men well enough to escape the poisoned tongue of mutiny, and it was very near here that the captain and his men came ashore one day in search of provisions and wood for the carpenter’s stock. How I rue that day!”
“Now upon coming ashore, it was the captain’s custom, obsession I recount, to take with him a plank of wood from the finest tree to be carved into an oar by his carpenter’s hand. His cabin was filled with such carvings each bringing less pleasure than the next. Darkwood and cherry, willow and oak. The carpenter would finish an oar of pine to find the captain’s appetite now favored beech. And as such, the captain was never satisfied.”
“While his men were busy about their duties, the captain wandered about the wood and entered a small clearing.” The old man signaled with a withered hand that the wood behind the tavern was indeed the same wood through which he walked “On the far side of this clearing growing from a bed of clover was the most beautiful tree he had ever seen. O, how straight and true it grew! Instantly, the captain’s eyes coveted the tree, and he called to his men to hurry with their axes, giving the order to cut it down. ‘Cut me a length as tall as a man from the heartwood of this tree and burn what is left,’ I believe were his words. For the captain was a greedy man, you see, and wanted to possess the wood only for himself. Nothing was to remain. Some of the men who had knowledge of the coast refused to obey and warned of the fey which protect the woods and trees such as this. So beautiful was this tree, they thought, it must surely be one. This enraged the captain, and he seized an axe from the man nearest him and began hacking into the trunk spouting angered threats of punishment to those who would not help.” As he spoke, the old man took up an invisible axe and swung several times in the air with a soured scowl. “Reluctantly, they joined fearing the captain’s whip, and it was not long before a shank of wood was carved from the trunk and loaded upon the boat.
“Night fell quickly, and it was decided that they would stay until the morning so as to not risk the journey back in darkness for it was a cloudy eve. Not even the moon shed her light upon the water. A scout soon discovered an old shack long since abandoned at the edge of the wood; and they retired to their newfound shelter, fueled a fire with a few scraps from the tree, and drifted into uneasy sleep.”
“When they awoke the next morning, the men were restless and troubled for each had dreamed of an infinite darkness from which a woman’s voice wept. ‘The woods are haunted,’ they whispered and quickly gathered their things. Following the captain’s orders, they collected the remaining branches and splinters of the tree and built a great pyre upon the rocky shore. Setting it ablaze, they loaded the boat and pushed off from shore.”
“Back at the Talisman, the men worked quickly hoisting the wood to the deck. Hand over hand, they drew it up and lowered it upon the two blocks prepared for it.” The old man pantomimed the action with such great realism that the woodsman thought surely he was the one who manned the hoisting rope. “At once, the master carpenter began his work with axe and plane. By nightfall, the oar had been carved.”
“Not much of a carpenter,” Béodan quipped taking another draft of his ale.
“You see the oar only as it is now and not as it was. For it was a magnificent piece, strong and straight as the tree from which it was carved,” the old man retorted. “But it would not remain so for long. Once in the captain’s hand, you see, it began to shrivel and twist. Not at once, mind you, but slowly, steadily. Each day it withered a little more; and each night, the captain was plagued with the nightmare from that night ashore, waking in a sweat to discover his body, like the oar, had begun to wither. And like the center of the wood which hardened and cracked so too was the captain’s heart hardened. He grew more cruel and withdrawn, his punishments harsher and more unjustified. Rations of rum were quartered, then abolished. Men were flogged for the most trivial of offenses. The crew began to whisper among themselves that the oar was cursed and plots against the captain circulated in secret through the dark recesses of the ship.”
“But the captain too knew what had transpired since that day the oar was fashioned, and his darkened heart was turned against the oar. One evening, the captain, fearing for his life and the fate of his gold, called for the bo’sun who was above all others still loyal. From his bedside where he lay shriveled and twisted, he pulled the bo'sun close and whispered with a weak and bitter voice, “When the night watch changes, take the cursed oar ashore and nail it to the western face of that loathsome shack so that it will never look upon it’s beloved wood again but instead be made to stare out toward the sea in punishment for what it has brought upon me.”
“So the bo'sun found the twisted oar beneath the captain’s bed and collected the carpenter’s hammer and satchel. Enlisting the service of the night watchman, a young savage whose heart was more content with the glittering of stars than the glittering of gold, the two lowered the rowboat quietly into the dark waters; and under the cover of darkness, made their way toward the distant shore.”
“It was several hours before they ran aground near the place they had found the tree. Climbing to the top of the cliffs, they came upon the shack, and the bo'sun took up the oar. Pressing it against the portal, he called to the young savage, ‘Roèn, come hold the oar for me.’”
“The young savage approached the oar but hesitated. ‘Wait,’ he whispered as he took hold of it and laid it upon the mossy ground. Drawing forth his knife from its sheath, he carved into the paddle a crescent moon and whispered a few silent, apologetic words. Nodding to the bo’sun, he held it to the door while the other drove nine nails of iron through the twisted wood.”
“That same night, after the two had disembarked, the captain slipped into slumber and dreamt again of the infinite darkness and the woman’s cry just as he had done many nights before. But it was not the same dream, you see; for this time, a searing white moon appeared through the darkness scorching his flesh and pressing back the lids of his eyes. He looked upon the hole torn into the earth where the tree once stood and saw the woman whose cry had haunted him kneeling beside it, sobbing, her limbs severed, her body and face twisted like the oar. The bond between the two became clear, the bond that he himself had broken for his own gluttonous gain, and he began to weep. For the bond he had severed had become his own and his fate tied to that of the oar. Such was the curse of the dryad whose tree had been taken. He cowered and shielded his eyes from the burning orb terrified by the truth it had revealed to him. Twisting away, he found himself once again upon his bed. At the foot now stood the woman with a face as terrible as the night, and she raised a bloody axe up high shrieking with a piercing cry. How horrible the sound! In that moment, the captain sat up in his bed crying out in fear and regret, but his voice was not heard. For as the cry left his lungs, two of the ship's crew kicked wide the door and pierced him through with their mutinous swords no less than nine times. The body was then tossed into the sea.”
“It was not until several days later that the captain's body washed ashore at the base of this jagged cliff. And since that day, this shore that was once so calm and at ease is now assailed by an angry, desperate sea. For it is said that even in death, his tortured soul remains bound to the oar and commands the waves against the rock, seeking to reclaim the oar so that his wrong may be made right and his soul may find its peace.”
With these last words, the old man fell silent, and for the first time Béodan realized the storm had passed.<br>
“A fine tale, old man! My thanks for such a gifted telling.”
The old man did not stir but remained silent as though fast asleep. Both the bartender and the woodsman exchanged puzzled looks, ultimately dismissing the man’s sudden muteness with a shrug.
“It is late at that, goodman. I best take some rest too before sun’s light.” Settling the bill, Béodan unrolled his bedroll upon the floor and drifted into sleep.
The next morning, he awoke to the dull crackling of a smoldering fire. Gathering his things in the pale light of dawn, he stepped quietly to the bar where he found the proprietor fast asleep upon a stool, head thrown back, mouth agape, and snoring as loud as thunder. Dropping a few extra coins upon the bar he glanced to the corner where the old man had been. Only a pile of driftwood remained.
With a melancholy smile, Béodan stepped through the portal and pulled the wooden door firmly shut behind him. It was cool and damp outside, and his breath steamed from his nostrils like the fog now rising from the crashing sea. Pulling his cloak tightly about himself, he set forth with a pensive stride, the old man’s tale still fresh upon his mind. He had not walked far when he turned about and glanced back over his shoulder toward the lonely tavern. For a moment he thought he saw the old man standing beside the oar staring back at him with a wicked little grin. But his eyes were deceived it seemed, for a short breath of wind lifted the figure's hair to reveal the twisted face of an old crone, a face as twisted as the oar itself. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Béodan strained to focus, but the fog had consumed the tavern, and he now stood alone in a cloud of misty white.