Foolish Notions
How is the measure of a man weighed when he realizes how the life which he has chosen—or has, against his awareness, been chosen for him—is a mistake? If it is a sham which he is living, does he rail against the unfairness of his situation? Or does he simply shrug his shoulders marking his acceptance to the fates and pile up disappointing day after disappointing day until his life is mercifully ended? Perhaps he runs off on some romantic fantasy, questing for life’s deep vast secrets only to slink home at some later day with the knowledge that he has been beaten down by the very notions which he believed to be truths so profound as to be capable of saving his immortal soul. Does he drown his sorrows in cups of ale too numerous to count? Or do the arms of a beautiful woman become his refuge, only to realize later in life how the sanctuary of these worldly delights do little to sate the thirst which drives him to sleepless nights haunted by the ghosts of who he knows he could have been?
Or maybe—just maybe—he puts down his quill and ink, stops writing romantic notions of what he believes to be profound observations never before realized by the common man, and leaves to go find his destiny!
While that may sound easy to do, for a young man barely in his twenties, life in this dangerous world in which we live is not conducive to grand bouts of artistic expression. Unless, of course, one is either very wealthy or very talented. Unfortunately, at this point in my life I was neither. It is too difficult to make it through every-day life with only romantic illusions of grandeur as your guide…unless one is completely delusional, in which case welcome to my world!
Standing next to the sputtering torch hanging in the metal stanchion in the dimly-lit darkness outside of the front door of where I have comfortably called home these past ten years, with my few pitiful belongings including that ink and quill slung over my shoulders, I am grateful to the cacophony of noises emanating from the many taverns and dens of ill repute which constitute Perilous Alley. They mask the sound of the knocking of my knees due to mortal fear of the unknown! With one last longing glance at the door and the promise of the safety it contains, I gather my courage and turn my back upon the world which I have known. As I quietly trudge off into the nightly gloom to the accompaniment of the usual barking dogs in search of that destiny, I have no doubt that someday I will return to “The Alley.” But when that day does arrive, I shall do so on my own terms.
Through the early-morning mist weaving its way through the dank recesses of the back streets I know so well, I saunter along as if without a care in the world. For that is how one successfully traverses the dangers of The Alley with his throat intact: act as if you belong there under the protection of some very powerful friends and it just may be believed. Hear everything—see what should remain hidden from your sight, and never let your hand stray from the reassuring touch of cold steel against the palm of your hand! These are the lessons which the smart survivors learn while the fools who forget them are usually found face-down in the gutters the next day by the members of The Night’s Watch.
I will miss my good friend and benefactor “The Artist”, the greatest forger in the kingdom and the man who found a newly-orphaned ten-year-old boy wandering aimlessly along The Alley in abject fear these eleven odd years ago. Had it not been for his intercession, I doubt that I would have lasted through the night as I was so far out of my element. He took me in, and with incredible patience, took a sullen, stubborn young ass with an attitude of how life was unfair and molded me into an apprentice worthy of his greatness. He gave me back my appreciation for life and all its wonders, while I gave him the best that my talents could provide.
And my love…I believe he always knew that.
Yet no matter how much I studied his craft and honed my abilities to replicate all manner of documents, at the end of the day I always found my quill scratching dabs of ink across blank parchment as characters and stories flowed from my mind, down my arm, and onto that parchment as effortlessly as if I were simply an observer to the experience. In time, I overcame my penchant for shyness as I began to paint my stories with the spoken word to any audience I could find rather than writing them down on manuscripts to be recalled sometime in the near future. In the smoke-filled taverns of Perilous Alley, I honed my craft, heaping mistake upon mistake until I found that I could actually capture audiences with my stories and carry them to places they would never be capable of visiting without my words as their guide. I took to wearing a floppy old brown hat, the original shape of which had long been forgotten. Were I to be seen traversing the alley or staking out a corner of the Capital’s Central Square with that old formless hat upon my head, the initiated would know that a tale was about to be shared. The smart ones ran as fast as they could in the opposite direction, while those who had remained children at heart despite all that reality had managed to throw at them during their lifetimes gathered around me, their eyes dancing in the firelight as their focus turned inward in a quest to envision the magical world which I painted for them with my words. From other traveling Tellers-of-Tales, I learned how nuances in my vocal tone could flesh out characters and experiences better than entire paragraphs of written word. I could change stories amid sentence to better entertain particular audiences. Love becomes war, serious morphs into comedy extraordinaire…and unbelievably my empty pockets became depositories of coins in numbers beyond my wildest dreams!
Having seen or created enough fakes in his time, The Artist could recognize real talent when he saw it. Deep down, I believe he knew that he had lost me the first time he listened to one of my tales. My path was determined. However, the day when I was to take my first steps had yet to be decided.
With more than a little sadness on both of our parts, it was agreed that I would continue to work for him two more months…after which I would be free to go and find my destiny with his blessing. I threw myself into my work as I wanted to accomplish as much as I could as a way of showing appreciation to the man who had saved my life and mended my spirit. Long into the night, to the sputtering of candle flames, I would copy the script of some unknown scribe either omitting certain words or adding others until new ideas were born from old concepts for the benefit of whomever had employed our organization. We lived well, never went hungry, and wanted for little. Yet, while the attraction of living a secret life may be romanticized by some, the idea of simply re-creating the work of others kept me from settling into what could turn into a lucrative opportunity. It wasn’t so much a question of right or wrong which I found perplexing, for our work took from rich men often corrupted and gave to other rich men hoping to attain that same level of corruption. My conundrum was more in that I would ponder other works written by these same scribes and wonder how my imagination and my ability would compare. I grew tired of adapting their words to fit the plans of others; I found I needed the challenge of utilizing my own words to create works which would hopefully be pondered and cherished by newer generations.
That and making enough money to live on was important of course…can’t forget that one.
For days on end I thought and imagined what I would do if I were free to pursue my dreams until desire overcame fear and I started to make actual plans. Over and over in my mind I would figure out where I would go and how I would present myself until any and all possibilities were foreseen, any potential difficulties overcome. Routes of travel were carefully planned down to the tiniest of details encompassing time of year, weather to contend with, as well as villages with known resources to visit. The lessons of maximum preparedness for any and all unexpected situations which had been drilled into me by The Artist all these years had been well learned. I was ready and eager to begin the adventure of my life.
In time, the big day finally arrived when I made what had previously lived only within the confines of my imagination the foundation of all my future endeavors. I bid farewell to my teacher and friend, turned my back upon the life I knew, and was off to make the world mine with absolutely nothing to stop me.
Nothing except…reality!
And that is how later that same day I found myself standing at the southern edge of the city known as The Capital as the sun began to set in the west with absolutely NO idea of where to go or what to do next.
Eventually, I just began walking. I had no idea of where I wanted to go, nor had any idea in which direction my steps were taking me. What I did know however was how each one I took brought me closer to my goal and further from the life which I knew. Having lived all of that life within the confines of The Capital, walking out in the countryside in the dark was a whole new experience full of frightening sounds. I really did not know what to expect, so I expected nothing while trying to learn everything. Within the first several weeks, I learned quite a bit!
For instance, I learned that I should have walked more before I left The Capital, as by the end of the day, my feet and legs were awash in a sea of pain not easily diminished. I found that not eating was the norm as more often than not I was either on long empty stretches of road between towns or had long stretches of empty pockets when I finally arrived where food was to be found. I discovered how farmhouses with dogs kept wandering Tellers-of-Tales from finding shelter within barns as the pouring rains soaked everything which I owned…which became less and less the more villages that I visited as I was forced to sell off anything of value in order to get something to eat. I would occasionally be able to rustle up a small audience and come away with a coin or two. At first those instances were unfortunately few and far between. I had always expected to have to pay my dues as I learned the nuances of life on the road and honed my craft; what I had not counted on was how the don’ts would far outnumber the dues. As in—don’t come strolling into a new town just as another wandering Teller-of-Tales has been run out after having been found in a barn with the Sheriff’s daughter, or don’t expect that marshlands have to end eventually just because the mosquitoes are unbearable, and above all don’t ever get some romantic boneheaded idea of how traveling for a living can be the life for you!
I learned how it gets really dark at night when there is no moon, and that if you continue to walk along the road during those hours when you cannot see anything, you will inevitably step in what the horses which you had spotted pulling a carriage ahead of you hours before had left behind. I discovered that during a lightning storm if your hair stands straight up it is not a good thing, and that if you are going to stop for the night you should get your fire started before daylight is completely gone or you cannot see what you are trying to do, as well as the very important lesson that shoes do not last nearly long enough.
I had always patted myself upon the back for having the smarts to begin my journey after the winter months had passed; I now had the knowledge that great whopping blizzards can and do pop up when they are no longer expected to! This also lead me to even greater questions in my quest for knowledge; whether it is better for the snow to stop falling and have it warm up or to take advantage of the unusual weather to pass through the marshlands without being bothered by incessant insects?
Oh, and just for future reference, no matter how cold a late season blizzard gets, the ice which it forms upon roadway ponds will never get sufficiently thick enough to support the weight of a Teller-of-Tales trying to take a shortcut across such a pond to find shelter in what appears to be an abandoned old barn. Speaking of which, did you know that swarms of bees will take up residence in the hollow walls of old structures allowing their populations to grow to astronomical numbers where they live in peace and quiet…until some moron trying to get out of a thunderstorm forces open the warped door of such a structure causing it to crash open against those same walls making them very angry?
I didn’t.
I do now!
It has been said how the road can be a very demanding teacher, and I know this to be true; but not all that it teaches is bad or even dangerous. I met a woman healer in a small village which I had just been passing through without plans on staying. She was willing to teach me what roots and plants I could find in the fields along the roadway which were good to eat—and which were not. In exchange, I would tell a few stories to those villagers whom she knew were not long for this world as a way of taking their minds off of the inevitable. When we were out in the fields looking for plants, I half-jokingly asked if she knew how to brew a love potion. She gave me a strange look and said that I was my own love potion; I was just not ready to be properly mixed yet. I was told how all of the ingredients which made me whom I was would come together when I met the right girl, and then I would be irresistible. When I asked her how I would know if a girl was the right one, she just smiled and said that I would know.
Taking me around to several of the homes of the villagers she had been treating, I shared a tale or two with some older folks who were on their deathbeds and those family members caring for them. I don’t believe that I will ever have a more appreciative audience; I know I shall never forget the smiles they shared. It was at the last house I was being taken to that first day where I met Martha Baker, a little six-year old girl who hurt so badly she could no longer even get out of her bed. She would just stare out of the window for hours at a time as she silently cried when the potion she was being given for her pain could control her agony—or lay screaming when it would not. Inspired by her need, I created some of my best stories about mysterious far-off lands and the adventures of the various people who lived there. I wove a tale or two with her that first day; she told me how if she closed her eyes as I spoke, she could almost imagine how she was there living out the stories in a magical land where the pain would not follow. Returning the next day, I shared with her a story about some little mice living in a great big castle. For the next several days I would make sure to visit her and whisk her away from the pain ravaging her frail little body to the world she saw in her mind where only happiness was allowed. I was treated to some of the last smiles this little girl would ever know.
I had planned on an over-night stay in that village—I left a week later after Martha had passed.
I had heard a few months afterwards how in a different town, my healer friend had treated a woman accused by another jealous villager of being a witch…and was burned at the stake for her efforts!
The road can be a very tough teacher, indeed.
I learned this lesson the hard way when a fellow Teller-of-Tales whom I had encountered on several occasions suggested that I should make my way to the village of Wilkerston as the people there were very open to paying well for a good tale. I was prepared to depart for his suggested town in the morning, until I had a conversation with the local Sheriff, who had overheard the suggestion of Wilkerston and informed me that should I follow this ‘friendly’ advice, I would probably run afoul of highwaymen known to inhabit the woods outside of that town and quite possibly fail to survive the ordeal!
I really do hope that the poor unfortunate folk to whom I gave all of that Teller-of-Tales’s clothes as well as his shoes—which I had ‘acquired’ by sneaking into his room in the dead of night, had put them to good use. I did not touch his purse, for that would have been outright stealing and that is something which I am not about. Can I help it if the Sheriff held the door to the room open for me to go inside and find garments to be donated to the destitute members of the local population?
Maybe next time that “gentleman” would think twice before attempting to send someone else to meet their fate in the hands of those who wield sharp objects around the throats of unsuspecting travelers without remorse!
And yes, I did sleep very well that night.
After six months of little more than carving out a career in starvation, I was fortunate to make the acquaintance of Mister Barnaby Higgins, a Quadruple W Teller-of-Tales who had been on the road for over 20 years. Having never heard of a Quadruple W Teller-of-Tales, I made the mistake of asking him for its meaning. With his usual carefree grin upon his rotund bewhiskered face, Mister Barnaby Higgins explained how this designation was of his own design, and that it stood for a Wonderful, Willing, Winsome, Wandering Teller-of-Tales. Apparently, I must have looked more like a Triple S—a Starving, Stumbling, Scarecrow—for Mister Higgins decided how I needed to be taken under somebody’s wing and gain some practical knowledge before I became an emaciated dead Teller-of-Tales! Inviting me to travel along with him in order to teach me some tricks of the trade as we walked, I quickly agreed. I thought that I already knew how to tell a good and interesting tale and thus had little to learn on that subject. On the first day of our journey, I learned more from him in twelve hours than I had been able to teach myself in nearly two years!
The next three weeks would produce many of my favorite memories of my time spent traveling upon the road. By day, we would maintain either a good quick pace or a slow meandering one depending on the day of the week as well as how near we were to our destination. He taught me how all towns or villages were not the same; if you were headed to a large farming community, there was only one day each week in which to be able to gather a sufficient audience for your tale and that was Sunday.
“These people work the fields or tend to their flocks at least six days a week,” he explained before I could even ask why. “The only day when they have any free time is right after they meet for Church. Couple that with the fact they have already gathered your audience for you if you are patient and wait for the service to be over. You arrive in such a town on a weekday and you will be facing crowds which you can count on the fingers of one hand,” he said. “Thus we either hurry or take our time. If you treat every day the same instead of planning out your journey depending upon the nature of the surrounding territory, you will never have any significant money earned,” he explained, the jowls of his chubby face (which matched his chubby body nicely) shaking as he laughed.
In this manner, I learned about seeking larger more prosperous towns for holidays and festivals as chances are folks would be available for several days’ worth of decent audiences, and how to keep some of your money in your shoes or socks in the unhappy event you should be robbed. In short, all kinds of information which 20 years of experience had taught him, and I was being freely offered it all.
At night, by the shimmer of the flames of our fires, we swapped stories. He always waited until the next day to critique my efforts—said he didn’t want to put a damper on my enthusiasm for the tale. After a short while, I began to offer my opinions of how I could have done better before he even got the opportunity to tell me how to improve. That made him very pleased, as he said to always consider in which ways you could improve your presentation or performance.
“Wake up every morning with the urge to be better than you were the day before,” he instructed. “Even if you had not made a presentation that day.” It was advice which I would always recall and keep close to my heart.
No matter how much we were enjoying each other’s company, one morning he informed me how later that day when we came to the fork in the road, we would each go our separate ways. “Bird’s gotta’ learn to fly,” was how he put it. It was a very sad moment when we arrived at that separation point. I will never forget him nor the many lessons he shared with me. Had he not given me the benefit of his wisdom, it is quite possible I may have had to give up my dream and never gotten to where I needed to be later on in life.
Work with me here. I was a city kid who had never been on my own since the age of ten. I knew the ins and outs of a place like Perilous Alley, but one does not exactly find many such alleys in the open fields and small villages or hamlets dotted alongside the dirt road providing the lifeblood of food and various goods which kept the beating heart of The Realm alive. (Darn that was good!). When I left The Artist that morning some seven months ago now, I was so certain I knew it all; very soon I realized how I had not even learned the right questions to ask! But to my credit, I was not too proud to take advice, ask the questions which I could figure I needed to know the answers to, but above all—I never gave up! I may have sighed…I may have cried…I never lied…and I never died! (Now that was really good; I have to stop and write that one down before I forget it!).
This is what I do all day as I walk the many leagues from town to town…I think.
Yes, I do!
As I am already wandering, I let my mind do the same; I just hope to catch up to it by the end of the day. With some of the thoughts or questions I come up with sometimes, I begin to wonder if maybe it has gotten so far away from me that I may never get it back.
Let me give you some examples of several of the more interesting notions I have come up with during my travels and you be the judge of whether I did indeed regain my mind or better yet if I should even try.
I have read stories how during wars back in ancient times, entire cities of stone would be burnt to the ground. Just how is it that one gets stone to burn? And if stone originally was ground to begin with, how far does it have to burn to get to where it was in the first place?
I hear there is a land across the water where there are no snakes—absolutely none! I wonder what would happen if I went there with a snake in my bag, and when no one was looking took it out, threw it on the ground, and exclaimed “Look what I found!”
How many cows died of starvation until one finally thought ‘Hey that grass looks interesting.’
A drop of rain falls from the sky and lands in a pond. This pond feeds a brook, which gains strength and becomes a stream. By and by the stream becomes a river, which eventually flows into the sea. That drop has done its job, right? What about the poor drop that lands on your head and dries there…is that one dead?
Why is it that people name their children after flowers (Rose, Lilly) or shrubbery (Holly, Fern) and yet you never hear of anyone named after a tree (Dogwood, Oak, Pine)? What do people have against trees?
Ever watch a chicken? Me neither. As far as animals go, they are so darn boring! Rather tasty if the truth be known, but still not worth watching.
If day always follows night, and seasons will always be when they are supposed to be, do you suppose that storms are a result of God getting bored?
Sometimes I think that particular words are purposely spelled wrong. An example? You have man, and you have woman. In my mind, their name should have been spelled woe-man as us guys certainly could have used the warning!
Why is it that birds think the seeds they carry in their poop will grow in my hat?
Have you ever stopped and watched an ant at work? They are amazing in the amount of non-stop work they do. I finally had to stop watching—I was too exhausted.
Horse eats grass—poops on grass—poop helps grass grow; a very nice closed system.
If you were given the opportunity of living one day again, which would it be? My choice personally would be the day after I died, thank you.
I think I know a secret; it’s why God made seagulls and pigeons. We all know what they are famous for, right? So, every time they err in their calculations and do not hit you in the head with you-know-what, we look to the sky and say, ‘Thank God it missed’. I think that He appreciates the attention.
Besides these crazy thoughts of mine, I do spend some time wisely and come up with ideas for new stories or clever lines to add to existing ones. On a good day I might be found under a tree upon the side of the road for hours, my ink and quill virtually flying over the piece of parchment in my hands as a tale unfolds. Other days I might be found under a tree upon the side of the road for hours…sleeping. To me, that is the allure of the life which I have chosen; I have no set schedules as I have no one to answer to but myself. What I choose is what I do.
Do I have some restraints upon absolute freedom of choice? Of course I do—most of them have to do with food and the acquisition of such. I am my own boss, the cook of the operation, the food procurement committee, the one in charge of making the night fire…in short, I fill many positions (actually all of them) within the Dylan Ainsley Organization. It is an unfortunate truth that while I have a complete idiot for a boss, the crew whom I have working under me is made up of total morons!
